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NEW  YORK: 

ITS 
AND 


BY   GEORGE  LIPFARD, 

AUTHOE  OF  "ADONAI;"  "-WASHINGTON  AND    HIS  GENERALS;"  "THE  QUAKER  CITY;' 

aedknheim;"  "blanche  of  brandywine;"  "legends  of  iiEXico; 

"  THE  NAZARENE,"  ETC.  ETC.  ETC. 


CIKCINNATI: 
E.  MENDENHAT.L, 

Walnut  Street. 

1  8  54. 


If 


0 


Entered,  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853,  by 
H.  M.  RULISON. 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Ohio. 


CINCINNATI: 
C.  A.  MORGAN  <b  CO.,  STERSOTYPERS, 
UAMMOXD  ST. 


PRELIMINARY  SKETCH. 


Christmas  Eve,  1823,  was  a  memorable  night  in  the  history  of  a  certain 
wealthy  family  in  New  York.  The  night  was  dark  and  stormy,  but  the  tempest 
which  swept  over  the  bay,  and  whitened  the  city's  roofs  with  snow,  was  but  a  faint 
symbol  of  the  tempest  of  human  passion — ^jealousy,  coVetousness,  despair — then  at 
work,  in  the  breasts  of  a  group  jof  individuals,  connected  with  the  old  and  dis- 
tinguished family  of  Van  Huyden. 

On  that  night,  Gulian  Van  Huyden,  the  representative  of  the  family,  and 
owner  of  its  immense  wealth — a  young  man  in  the  prime  of  early  manhood,  who 
had  been  happily  married  a  year  before  —  gave  a  great  banquet  to  his  male 
friends,  in  his  city  mansion.  By  his  side  was  seated  his  younger  brother,  Charles 
Van  Huyden,  whom  the  will  of  their  father  had  confined  to  a  limited  income,  while 
Gulian,  as  the  elder  son,  had  become  the  possessor  of  nearly  all  of  the  immense 
wealth  of  the  family. 

The  banquet  was  prolonged  from  about  nine  o'clock  until  near  dawn,  and  during 
its  progress,  Guhan  and  his  brother  had  been  alternately  absent,  for  the  space  of 
an  hour,  or  a  half  hour  at  a  time. 

The  city  mansion  of  Gulian,  situated  not  far  from  Trinity  Church,  flung  the 
blaze  of  its  festival  lights  out  upon  the  stormy  night.  That  light  was  not  sufficient 
to  light  up  the  details  of  two  widely  different  edifices,  which,  located  within  a  hun- 
dred yards  of  Gulian's  mansion,  had  much  to  do  with  his  fortunes,  and  the  for- 
tunes of  his  family. 

The  nearest  of  these  edifices,  an  antique,  high-roofed  house,  which  stood  in  a 
desolate  garden,  was  (unknown  to  Gulian)  the  home  of  his  brother,  and  of  that 
brother's  mistress — a  woman  whom  Charles  did  not  wish  to  marry,  until  by  some 
chance  or  other,  he  became  the  possessor  of  the  Van  Huyden  estate. 

The  other  edifice,  a  one-storied  hovel,  was  the  home  of  a  mechanic  and  his 
young  wife.  His  name  was  John  Hoffman,  his  trade  that  of  a  stone  mason,  and 
at  the  period  of  this  narrative,  he  was  miserably  poor. 

fv) 


vi  PRKLIMINARr  SKKTCH. 

Now,  during  the  night  of  Christmas  eve  (and  while  the  banquet  was  in  progress 
in  Gulian's  city  mansion),  an  unknown  person,  thickly  cloaked,  entered  the  hovel 
of  the  mechanic,  bearing  a  new-born  child  in  his  arms.  An  interview  followed 
between  the  unknown,  John  Hoffman,  and  his  wife.  The  mechanic  and  his  wife 
consented  to  adopt  the  child  in  place  of  one  which  they  had  recently  lost.  The 
stranger  with  the  child,  gave  them  a  piece  of  parchment,  which  bore  on  one  side, 
the  initials,  **G.  G.  V.  H.  C."  and  on  the  other  the  name  of  **Dr.  Martin  Ful- 
MER,"  an  eccentric  physician,  well  known  in  New  York.  This  parchment  deposited 
in  a  letter  addressed  to  Dr.  Fulmer,  and  sent  to  the  post  office  once  a  quarter, 
would  be  returned  to  the  mechanic,  accompanied  by  the  sum  of  a  hundred  dollars. 
John  was  especially  enjoined  to  keep  this  interview  and  its  results  a  secret  from 
the  Doctor.  Having  deposited  the  child  and  parchment  with  the  worthy  couple, 
the  stranger  departed,  and  was  never  again  seen  by  the  mechanic  or  his  wife. 

Within  an  hour  of  this  singular  interview  the  mistress  of  Charles  Van  Huyden, 
returned  to  her  home  (from  which  she  had  been  absent  for  a  brief  period) — flakes  of 
snow  upon  her  dress  and  upon  her  disordered  hair — and  placed  upon  her  bed,  the 
burden  which  she  carried,  a  new-born  infant,  enveloped  in  a  shawl.  As  the  fallen, 
but  by  no  means  altogether  depraved  woman,  surveyed  this  infant,  she  also  beheld 
her  own  child,  sleeping  in  a  cradle  not  far  from  the  bed — a  daughter  some  three 
months  old,  and  named  after  its  mother  Frank,  that  is,  Francis  Van  Huyden. 

Christmas  Eve  passed  away,  and  Christmas  morning  was  near.  Dr.  Martin 
Fulmer  was  suddenly  summoned  to  Gulian's  mansion.  And  Gulian,  fresh  from 
the  scenes  of  the  banquet  room,  met  the  Doctor  in  an  obscure  garret  of  his  man- 
sion. He  first  bound  the  Doctor  by  an  oath,  to  yield  implicit  obedience  to  all  his 
wishes,  an  oath  which  appealed  to  all  that  was  superstitious,  as  well  as  to  all 
that  was  truly  religious  in  the  Doctor's  nature,  and  then  the  interview  followed, 
terrible  and  momentous  in  its  details  and  its  results.  These  results  stretch  over  a 
period  of  twenty-one  years — from  December  25,  1823,  to  December  25,  1844. 
This  interview  over,  Gulian  left  the- Doctor  (who,  stupefied  and  awe-stricken  by  the 
words  which  he  had  just  heard,  sank  kneeling  on  the  floor  of  the  room  in  which 
the  interview  had  taken  place),  and  silently  departed  from  his  mansion.  He  bent 
his  steps  to  the  Battery.  And  then — young,  handsome,  the  possessor  of  enormoun 
wealth — he  left  this  life  with  the  same  composure,  that  he  had  just  departed  from 
his  mansion.  In  plain  words,  he  plunged  into  the  river,  and  met  the  death  of  thi 
SUICIDE  in  its  ice-burdened  waves,  while  his  brother  Charles  (whom  we  forgot  te 
state,  had  accompanied  him  from  the  threshold  of  his  home),  stood  aff'righted  and 
appalled  on  the  shore. 

Meanwhile,  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer  (bound  by  his  oath),  descended  from  the  garret 
into  a  bedchamber  of  the  Van  Huyden  mansion.  Upon  the  bed  was  stretched  a 
beautiful  but  dying  woman.  It  was  Alice  Van  Huyden,  the  young  wife  of 
Giihan.  All  night  long  (while  the  banquet  progressed  in  another  apartment)  she 
had  wrestled  in  the  agonies  of  maternity,  unwatched  and  alone.    She  had  given 


VRELIMINABTSEETCH.  Vil 

birth  to  a  child,  but  when  the  Dr.  stood  by  the  bed,  the  child  had  been  removed 
by  unknown  hands. 

Convinced  of  his  wife's  infidelity — believing  that  his  own  brother  Charles  was 
the  author  of  his  dishonor — Gulian  had  left  his  mansion,  his  wealth,  Hfe  and  all  its 
hopes,  to  meet  the  death  of  the  suicide  in  the  waves  of  Manhattan  Bay. 

And  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer,  but  a  few  hours  ago  a  poor  man,  now  found  himself, 
as  he  stood  by  the  bed  of  the  dying  wife,  the  sole  trustee  of  the  Van  Huyden  Estate. 

His  trust  was  to  continue  for  twenty-one  years.  In  case  of  his  death,  he  had 
power  to  appoint  a  successor.  And  at  the  end  of  twenty-one  years,  on  the  26th 
of  December,  1844,  the  estate  (swelled  by  the  accumulations  of  twenty-one  years), 
was,  by  the  will  of  Gulian  Van  Huyden,  to  be  disposed  of  in  this  wise  : 

I.  In  case  a  son  of  Gulian  should  appear  on  that  day  (December  25th,  1844),  the 
estate  should  descend  absolutely  to  him.  Or, 

II.  In  case  on  the  day  named,  it  should  be  proven  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  Trus- 
tee, that  such  a  son  had  been  in  existence,  but  had  met  his  death  in  a  truly  just 
cause,  then  the  estate  was  to  be  disposed  of,  according  to  the  directions  em- 
bodied in  a  sealed  codicil  (which  was  not  to  be  opened  until  December  25, 
1844).  But  in  case  such  a  son  did  not  appear,  and  in  case  his  death  in  a  truly 
just  cause  was  not  proven  on  the  appointed  day,  then, 

III.  The  estate  was  to  be  divided  among  the  heirs  of  seven  persons,  descendants 
of  the  first  of  the  Van  Huyden's,  who  landed  on  Manhattan  Island,  in  the  year 
1623.  These  seven  persons,  widely  distributed  over  the  United  States,  were 
(by  the  directions  of  :the  Testator)  to  be  furnished  with  a  copy  of  the  will.  And 
among  these  seven  or  their  heirs — that  is,  those  of  the  number  who  appeared 
before  Martin  Fulmer,  at  the  appointed  place  on  the  appointed  day — the  estate 
would  be  divided. 

Such  in  brief,  were  the  essential  features  of  the  will. 

A  few  days  after  December  26,  1823,  Charles  Van  Huyden,  having  in  bis  pos- 
sion  8200,000  (given  to  him  by  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer,  in  accordance  with  the  wishes 
of  Gulian)  left  New  York  for  Paris,  taking  with  him  his  mistress  (now  his  wife), 
their  child  "Francis"  or  **  Frank,"  and  the  strange  child  which  the  woman  had 
brought  to  her  home,  on  Christmas  Eve,  1823.  Whether  this  "  strange"  child,  or 
the  child  left  with  the  poor  mechanic,  was  the  ojQfspring  of  GuHan  Van  Huyden, 
will  be  seen  from  the  narrative  which  follows  this  imperfect  sketch. 

Twenty-one  years  pass  away;  it  lacks  but  a  day  or  two  of  December  25th,  1844. 
Who  are  the  seven  heirs  ?  Does  a  son  of  Gulian  live  ?  What  has  become  of 
Charles  Van  Huyden;  of  Hoffman  the  mechanic,  and  of  the  child  left  in  the  care 
of  the  mechanic  ?    What  has  become  of  Charles  Van  Huyden's  wife  and  child  ? 

On  a  night  in  December  1844 — say  the  23d  of  the  month — we  shall  find  in 
New  York,  the  following  persons,  connected  with  the  fortunes  of  the  Van  Huyden 
family : 


Viii  PRKLIMINARTSKBTCH. 

The  "  Seven"  or  their  heirs. 

I.  Gabriel  Godlike,  a  statesman,  who  with  an  intellect  rivaling  some  o*"  the  great- 
est names  in  our  history,  such  as  Clay,  Calhoun  or  Webster,  is  destitute  of  the 
patriotism  and  virtues  of  these  great  men. 

II.  Herman  Barnhurst,  a  clergyman,  who  has  lured  from  Philadelphia  to  New 
York,  the  only  daughter  of  a  merchant  of  the  former  city.  This  clergyman  and 
his  victim,  are  pursued  by  the  Third  of  the  Seven. 

III.  Arthur  Dermoyne,  a  mechanic. 

IV.  Israel  Yorke,  a  Banker. 

V.  Harry  Royalton,  of  Hill  Royal,  S.  C.  His  claim  to  an  undivided  seventh  of 
the  Estate,  will  be  contested  by  his  half  brother  and  sister,  Randolph  and 
Esther,  who  although  white,  are  alleged  to  have  African  blood  in  their  veins. 

VI.  Beverly  Barron,  a  "man  of  the  world." 

VII.  Evelyn  Somers,  a  New  York    Merchant  Prince." 

2d.  We  shall  find  in  New  York,  at  the  period  before  named,  Charles  Van  Huy- 
Pen,  transformed  into  Col.  Tarleton,  and  endeavoring  to  remove  from  his  hands 
the  blood  of  a  man  whom  he  has  slain  in  a  duel.  His  daughter  "  Frank"  grown 
to  womanhood,  and  brought  into  contact  with  Nameless,"  who  left  in  infancy  at 
the  hovel  of  John  Hoffman,  has  after  a  childhood  of  terrible  hardships — a  young 
manhood  darkened  by  madness  and  crime  —  suddenly  appeared  in  New  York, 
in  company  with  a  discharged  convict.  This  convict  is  none  other  than  John  Hoflf- 
man  the  mechanic.  And  gliding  through  the  narrative,  and  among  its  various 
actors,  we  shall  find  Martin  Fulmer,  or  his  successor. 

With  this  preliminary  sketch — necessarily  brief  and  imperfect,  for  it  covers  a 
period  of  twenty-one  years— the  following  narrative  is  submitted  to  the  reader. 
Yet  first,  let  us  for  a  moment  glance  at  the  Van  Huyden  Estate."  This  estate 
in  1823,  was  estimated  at  two  millions  of  dollars.    What  is  it  in  1844  ? 

The  history  of  two  millions  of  dollars  in  twenty-one  years !  Two  milHons  left  to 
go  by  itself,  and  ripen  year  after  year,  into  new  power,  until  at  last  the  original 
sum  is  completely  forgotten  in  the  vast  accumulation  of  capital.  In  the  Old  World 
twenty-one  years  glide  by,  and  everything  is  the  same.  At  the  end  of  twenty-one 
years,  two  millions  would  still  be  two  millions.  Twenty-one  years  in  the  New 
World  is  as  much  as  two  centuries  to  the  Old.  The  vast  expanse  of  land ;  the 
constant  influx  of  population;  the  space  for  growth  afforded  by  institutions  as  diflfer- 
«nt  from  those  of  Europe  (that  is  from  those  of  the  past),  as  day  from  night — all 
contribute  to  this  result.  From  1823  to  1844,  the  New  World,  hardened  by  a 
childhood  of  battle  and  martyrdom,  sprang  into  strong  manhood.  Behold  the 
philosophy  of  modem  wealth,  manifested  in  the  growth  of  the  Van  Huyden  Estate. 
Without  working  itself  it  bids  others  to  work.  Left  to  the  age,  to  the  growth  of 
the  people,  the  increase  of  commerce  and  labor,  it  swells  into  a  wealth  that  puts 
the  Arabian  Nights  to  shame.    In  1823  it  comprises  certairt^ pieces  of  land  in  the 


PRSLXMINARTSSBTOH.  ix 

heart  of  New  York,  and  in  the  open  country  beyond  New  York.  In  1844  the  city 
land  has  repeated  its  value  by  a  hundred ;  the  country  lots  have  become  the  abid- 
ing place  of  the  Merchant  Princes  of  New  York.  Cents  in  1 823,  become  dollars 
in  1844.  This  by  the  progress  of  the  age,  by  the  labor  of  the  millions,  and  with- 
out one  effort  on  the  part  of  the  lands  or  their  owner.  In  1823  there  is  a  country 
seat  and  farm  on  the  North  River;  in  1844  the  farm  has  become  the  seat  of 
factories,  mills,  the  dwelling  place  of  five  thousand  tenants,  whose  labor  has 
swelled  the  original  value  of  $160,000  into  ten  millions  of  dollars.  In  1823,  five 
thousand  acres,  scattered  over  the  wild  west,  are  vaguely  valued  at  $5000 — in  1844 
these  acres,  located  in  various  parts  of  the  west,  are  the  sites  of  towns,  villages, 
mines,  teeming  with  a  dense  population,  and  worth  thirty  millions  of  dollars.  In 
1823  a  tract  of  barren  land  among  the  mountains  of  Pennsylvania,  is  bought  for 
one  thousand  dollars ;  in  1844  this  tract,  the  location  of  mines  of  iron  and  coal,  is 

worth  TWENTY  MILLIONS. 

Thus  in  twenty-one  years,  by  holding  on  to  its  ovm,  the  Van  Huyden  Estate  has 
swelled  from  two  millions  to  one  hundred  millions  of  dollars.  The  age  moves 
on ;  it  remains  in  its  original  proprietorship,  swelled  by  the  labor  of  millions,  who 
derive  but  a  penny  where  they  bestow  upon  the  estate  a  dollar.  It  works  not; 
mankind  works  for  it.  Has  this  wealth  no  duties  to  mankind  ?  Is  there  not  some- 
thing horrible  in  the  thought  of  an  entire  generation,  for  mere  subsistence,  spending 
their  Hves,  in  order  to  make  this  man,  this  estate,  or  this  corporation,  the  possessor 
of  incredible  wealth  ? 


PROLOGUE. 


The  lamp  has  gone  out  in  the  old  familiar  room !  It  used  to  shine,  late  at  night 
upon  the  books,  upon  the  pictures  on  the  wall,  and  upon  my  face  as  I  sat  writing 
there!  Oftentimes  it  shone  upon  another  face  which  looked  over  my  shoulder,  and 
cheered  me  in  my  labor.  But  now  the  lamp  has  gone  out — and  forever.  The  face 
which  looked  upon  me  is  gone  ;  the  coffin  lid  shut  down  upon  it  one  Summer  day  ! 
The  loom  is  dark  forever.  And  the  next  room,  where  she  used  to  sleep  with  her 
children — it  is  dark  and  still !  The  house  is  desolate !  There  are  no  voices  to 
break  its  stillness !  Her  voice,  and  the  voices  of  our  children,  are  silent  forever  on 
this  lower  earth.  My  heart  goes  back  to  that  house  and  to  its  rooms,  and  to  the 
voices  tlat  once  sounded  there,  and  the  faces  which  once  made  it  glad,  and  with 
more  than  the  bitterness  of  Death  I  confess,  tJiat  Time  can  never  return.  Never- 
more, nevermore,  nevermore  !  Wealth  may  come  ;  change  of  scene  may  deaden 
sorrow;  wresthng  with  the  world,  may  divert  the  soul  from  perpetual  brooding,  but 
the  Truth  is  still  the  Truth,  that  Time  can  never  return.  And  this  is  the  end  of  all, 
after  a  life  spent  in  perpetual  battle — after  toiling  day  and  night  for  long  years — 
after  looking  to  the  Future,  hoping,  struggling,  suffering — to  find  at  last,  even 
before  thirty  years  are  mine,  that  the  lamp  has  gone  out,  and  forever  I  That  those 
for  whom  I  toiled  and  suffered — whose  well-being  was  the  impulse  and  the  ulti- 
mate of  all  my  exertions — are  no  longer  with  me,  but  gone  to  return  never — never- 
more. Upon  this  earth  the  lamp  that  lit  my  way  through  life,  has  indeed  gone 
out,  and  forever.  But  is  it  not  lighted  now  by  a  higher  hand  than  mortal,  and  is 
it  not  shining  now  in  a  better  world  than  this  ? 

Once  more  I  resume  my  pen.  Since  this  work  was  commenced,  Death  has  been 
busy  with  my  home— death  hath  indeed  laid  my  home  desolate.  It  is  a  selfish 
thing  to  write  for  money,  it  is  a  base  and  a  mean  thing  to  write  for  fame,  but  it  is 
a  good  and  a  holy  thing  to  write  for  the  approval  of  those  whom  we  most  intensely 

(xi^ 


Xii  PROLOOUK. 

love.  Deprived  of  this  spring  of  action,  it  is  hard,  very  hard  to  take  up  the  pen 
once  more.  Write,  write  !  but  the  face  that  once  looked  over  your  shoulder,  and 
cheered  you  in  your  task,  shall  look  over  it  no  more.  Write,  write!  and  turn  your 
gaze  to  every  point  of  the  horizon  of  life — not  one  face  of  home  meets  your  eye. 

Take  up  the  pen  once  more.  Banish  the  fast  gathering  memories — choke  them 
down.  Forget  the  actual  of  your  own  life,  in  the  ideal  to  which  the  pen  gives 
utterance.  Brave  old  pen !  Always  trusted,  never  faithless  !  True  through  long 
years  of  toil,  be  true  and  steadfast  now ;  when  the  face  that  once  watched  youj 
progress  is  sleeping  in  graveyard  dust.  And  when  you  write  down  a  noble 
thought,  or  give  utterance  to  a  holy  truth,  may  be,  that  face  will  smile  upon  your 
progress,  even  through  the  darkened  glass  which  separates  the  present  from  the 
Better  World. 


CONTENTS. 


PAQE. 

PBELisayAitT  Sketch  >.  v 

FboLOQUE  zi 


JJart  irirsl. 

"  FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN."   DEC.  23  1844.— EVENING. 

PAGK  , 


CHAPTER      I.   "Does  se  Remember?"   21 

CHAPTER     II.   Frank  and  her  Singular  Visitor  23 

CHAPTER  III.   The  Childhood  of  the  Midnight  Queen   25 

CHAPTER    IV.   Maidenhood  28 

CHAPTER    V.   On  the  Rock   30 

CHAPTER    VI.    Among  the  Palisades   31 

CHAPTER  VII.   In  the  Forest  Nook  32 

CHAPTER  VIII.   Home,  Adieu!...   34 

CHAPTER    IX.   Ernest  and  his  Singular  Adventures   35 

CHAPTER     X.    The  Palace  Home   37 

CHAPTER    XI.   "She'll  Do!"  39 

CHAPTER  XII.    A  Revelation   41 

CHAPTER  XIII.    Morphine   42 

CHAPTER  XIV.    The  Sale  is  complete   44 

CHAPTER  XV.  "Lost— Lost,  Utterly  ! "   4* 


(xiii; 


CONTENTS. 


Part  Qcconlt. 

FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT.    DEC.  23,  1844. 

CHAPTER      I,   Bloodhound  and  the  Unknown   49 

CHAPTER     II.    The  Canal  street  Shtbt  Stoee«  -   50 

CHAPTER   IIL    "Do  they  RoAE?"   54 

CHAPTER    IV.  ^The  Seven  Vaults   58 

CHAPTER    V.    The  Legate  OF  the  Pope   66 

CHAPTER  VL    "Joanna!"   74 

CHAPTER  VII.    The  White  Slave  and  his  Sisteb   77 

CHAPTER  VIII.   Eleanor  Ltnn   82 

CHAPTER   IX.   Bernard  Lynn   86 

CHAPTER    X.   "Yes  I  You  will  meet  Him."   90 

CHAPTER  XI.   In  the  House  of  the  Merchant  Prince   92 

CHAPTER  XII.    "Show  Me  the  Way"   98 

CHAPTER  XIII    "The  Reverend  Voluptuaries"   104 

CHAPTER  XIV.   "Below  Five  Points"   116 


THROUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY.   DEC.  24,  1844. 

CHAPTER      I.    The  Den  of  Madam  Resimee   123 

CHAPTER    II.   "Herman,  you  will  not  desert  Me?".   127 

CHAPTER  III.   Herman,  Arthur,  Alice   128 

CHAPTER   IV.    The  Red  Book   131 

CHAPTER    V.    "What  shall  we  do  with  her  ?  "   134 

CHAPTER   VL    A  Brief  Episode   136 

CHAPTER  VII.    Through  the  Silent  City   13 

CHAPTER VIII.   In  Trinity  Churoh   14 

CHAPTER   IX.   The  End  op  thk  Maboh   14 


CONTENTS.  XV 


part  ir0txrtl) 

IN  THE  TEMPLE— FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN.    DEO.  24, 1844 

PAOX. 

CHAPTER      I.    The  Central  Chamber   140 

CHAPTER     II.    The  Blue  Room   155 

CHAPTER   III.    The  Goldex  Room   15 

CHAPTER    ly.    The  Bridal  Chamber  167 

CHAPTER     V.    The  Scarlet  Chamber   170 

CHAPTER   VI.    Bank  Stock  at  the  Bar   175 

CHAPTER  VIL   *'"Where  is  the  Child  op  Guhak  Van  Huyden?"  181 

CHAPTER  VIIL    Beverly  and  Joan-na   183 

CHAPTER   IX.   Mary  Berman— Carl  Raphael   186 


part  iTiftl). 

^  THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY.    DEC.  24,  1844. 

CHAPTER      L    ''The  Other  Child"   189 

CHAPTER    II.    Randolph  and  his  Brother   195 

CHAPTER  III,    The  Husband  and  the  Profligate   196 

CHAPTER   IV.    Israel  and  his  Victim   198 

CHAPTER     V.   Mary,  Carl,  Cornelius   207 

CHAPTER  VI.   A  Look  into  the  Red  Book   210 

CHAPTER  VII.    Marion  Merlin   212 

CHAPTER  VIII .   Niagara   214 

CHAPTER   IX.    A  Second  Marriage   216 

CHAPTER    X.   A  Second  Murder   217 

CHAPTER  XL    Marion  and  Herman  Barnhubst   218 

CHAPTER  XII.    Marion  and  Fanny   220 

CHAPTER  XIII    An  Unutterable  Crime  221 

CHAPTERXIV.   Suicide  ^  222 

CHAPTER  XV.   After  the  Death  of  Marion  225 


CONTENTS. 


Part  SijctI). 

DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT.   DECEMBER  24,  1844. 

PAGK. 


CHAPTER  I.    Arratkd  foe  the  Bridal  229 

CHAPTER  II.    Herman  and  Godiva   234 

CHAPTER  III.   The  Dream  Elixir  240 

CHAPTER  IV.    The  Bridal  of  Joanna  and  Beverly  252 

CHAPTER  V.    An  Episode   258 


part  0;eDjettt[). 

THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS.   DEC.  25,  1844, 


,  CHAPTER  I.    Martin  Fulmer  appears   261 

CHAPTER  II.   "The  Seven"  are  summoned  267 

CHAPTER  III.   "Sat,  between  us  Three  1"  •SXeD 

CHAPTER  IV.    The  Legate  of  His  Holiness   272 

CHAPTER  V.    The  Son,  at  LastI   273 

CHAPTER  VI.   A  Long  Account  Settled   274 

CHAPTER  VII.   The  Banquet  Room  once  more  275 


Ow  the  Ocean — ^Bt  the  River  Shore — In  the  Vatican — On  thb  pBAmrs 


S73 


W  E  ¥  YORK: 

ITS 

UPPER-TEN  AND  LOWER  MILLION. 


PART  FIRST. 


"FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN." 

DEC.  23,  1844.— EVENING. 


CHAPTER  I. 
"  DOES  HE  REMEMBER  ?" 

"  Does  he  remember?"  was  tlie  exclama- 
tion of  Frank,  as  concealing  the  history  of 
the  Life  of  Nameless  within  her  bosom, 
a  singular  expression  flashed  over  her  beau- 
tiful face.  "Does  he  remember?"  was  her 
thought  — "  Is  he  conscious  of  the  words 
which  have  fallen  from  his  lips?  Does  he 
pass  from  this  singular  state  of  trance,  only 
to  forget  the  real  history  of  his  life?" 

The  agitation  which  had  convulsed  the 
face  of  Nameless,  at  the  moment  when 
he  emerged  from  the  clairvoyant  state  (if 
thus  we  may  designate  it)  soon  passed  away. 
HiSj^Ipe  became  calm  and  almost  radiant  in 
its  every  line.  His  eyes,  no  longer  glassy, 
shone  with  clear  and  healthy  light;  a  slight 
flush  animated  his  hitherto  sallow  cheeks; 
in  a  word,  his  countenance,  in  a  moment, 
underwent  a  wonderful  change. 

Frank  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"Ah !  I  begin  to  live !"  said  Nameless, 
passing  his  hand  over  his  forehead — "Yes, 
yes,"  he  uttered,  with  a  sigh  of  mingled  sor- 
row and  delight,  "I  have  risen  from  the 
grave.  For  two  years  the  victim  of  a  living 
death,  J  now  begin  to  live.  The  cloud  is 
gone;  I  see,  I  see  the  light !" 

He  rose  and  confronted  Frank. 

"  There  was  another  child  —  yes,  my  ' 
mother  gave  birth  to  two  children,  one  of 
whom  your  father  stole  on  the  night  of  its 
birth  and  reared  as  his  own.  His  purpose 
you  may  guess.  But  what  has  become  of 
that  child?  It  disappeared,  I  know,  at  the 
time  when  your  father  arrived  from  Paris — 
disappeared,  ha,  ha,  Frank!  Did  it  not  dis- 1 
appear  to  rise  into  light  again,  on  the  25th  I 


of  December,  1844,  as  the  only  child  of 
GuLiAN  Van  Huyden?  Your  father  is  a 
bold  gamester;  he  plays  with  a  fearless 
hand!" 

He  paced  the  room,  while  Frank,  listening 
intently  to  his  words,  watched  with  dumb 
wonder  the  delight  which  gave  a  new  life  to 
his  countenance. 

"And  Cornelius  Berman,  Frank — "  he 
turned  abruptly. 

"Died  last  year." 

His  countenance  fell. 

"And  Mary — " 

"  Followed  her  father  to  the  grave." 

He  fell  back  upon  the  sofa  like  a  wounded 
man.  It  was  some  moments  before  he  re- 
covered the  appearance  of  calmness. 

"  How  knew  you  this?" 

"A  year  ago,  an  artist  reduced  to  poverty, 
through  the  agency  of  Israel  Yorke,  came  to 
my  home  to  paint  my  portrait.  It  was  Cor- 
nelius Berman.  Yorke  had  employed  Bug- 
gies as  his  agent  in  the  affair  of  the  transfer 
of  the  property  of  Cornelius ;  Buggies  the 
agent  was  dead  indeed,  but  Yorke  appeared 
upon  the  scene,  as  the  principal,  and  sold 
Cornelius  out  of  house  and  home.  The 
papers  which  you  took  from  the  dead  body 
of  Buggies  were  only  copies ;  the  originals 
were  in  the  possession  of  Israel  Yorke." 

Nameless  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  He 
did  not  speak  again  until  many  minutes  had 
elapsed. 

"And  you  thought  that  Cornelius  had  put 
Buggies  to  death?" 

"I  gathered  it  from  a  rumor  which  has 
crept  through  New  Y^ork  for  the  last  two 
years.  The  haggard  face  and  wandering  eye 
of  the  dying  artist,  who  painted  my  pictm-e, 
confirmed  this  impression." 

(21) 


22 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


"And  Cornelius  came  to  this  house?" 

"  No;  to  another  house,  where  I  had  been 
placed  by  my  father.  He  procured  a  person 
to  represent  a  southern  gentleman,  and  por- 
flonate  my  father.  That  is,  I  was  represented 
as  the  only  child  of  a  rich  southerner ;  and 
in  that  capacity  my  picture  was  painted, 
and — and — I  afterward  visited  the  home  of 
the  artist,  in  a  miserable  garret,  and  saw  his 
daughter,  who  assisted  her  father,  by  the 
humblest  kind  of  work.  She  was  a  seam- 
stress—  she  worked  for  'sixteen  cents  per 
day.' " 

"And  she  is  dead,"  said  Nameless,  in  a 
loAv  voice. 

"  I  lost  sight  of  Mary  and  her  father  about 
a  year  ago,  and  have  since  received  intelli- 
gence of  their  death," 

"How  did  you  receive  this  intelligence?" 

"  It  was  in  all  the  papers.  Beverly  Bar- 
ron wrote  quite  a  touching  poem  upon  the 
Death  of  the  Artist  and  his  Daughter. 
Beverly,  you  are  aAvare,  was  eloquent  upon 
such  occasions  :  the  death  of  a  friend  was 
always  a  godsend  to  him." 

Nameless  did  not  reply,  but  seemed  for  a 
moment  to  surrender  himself  to  the  influence 
of  unalloyed  despair. 

"  Look  you,  Frank,"  he  said,  after  a  long 
pause,  "I  have  seventy-one  thousand  dol- 
lars— " 

"  Seventy-one  thousand  dollars  !"  she  ejac- 
ulated. 

"Yes,  and  it  is  'Frank  and  Nameless 
AND  Ninety-One  against  the  world.'  To- 
morrow is  the  24th  of  December ;  the  day 
after  will  be  THE  DAY.  We  must  lay  our 
plans  ;  we  must  track  Martin  Fulmer  to  his 
haunt ;  we  must  foil  your  father,  and,  in  a 
word,  show  the  world  that  its  cunning  can 
be  baffled  and  its  crime  brought  to  justice, 
by  the  combination  of  three  persons  —  a 
Fallen  Woman,  a  Convict  and  a  Murderer ! 
O,  does  it  not  make  your  heart  bound  to 
think  of  the  good  work  we  can  do  with 
seventy-one  thousand  dollai-s !" 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  quietly,  but 
her  dark  eye  answered  the  excitement 
which  flashed  from  every  line  of  his  coun- 
tenance. 

"And  will  it  not  be  a  glorious  thing  for  us, 
if  we  can  wash  away  our  crimes — yes,  Frank, 
our  crimes— and  show  the  %rorld  what  virtue 


lurks  in  the  breast  of  the  abandoned  and  tha 
lost  ?" 

"  Then  I  can  atone  for  the  crime  of  which 
I  am  guilty — for  I  am  guilty  of  being  the 
child  of  a  man  who  sold  me  into  shame — 
you  are  guilty  of  having  stained  your  hands 
in  the  blood  of  a  wretch  who  cursed  the 
very  air  which  he  breathed — and  Ninety- 
One,  is  guilty,  yes  guilty  of  having  once 
been  in — my  falJier's  way.  These  are  terri- 
ble crimes,  Gulian — " 

"  Call  me  not  by  that  name  imtil  the  25th 
of  December,"  exclaimed  Nameless. 

At  this  moment,  Frank  turned  aside  and 
from  the  drawer  of  a  cabinet,  drew  forth  a 
long  and  slender  vial,  which  she  held 
before  the  eyes  of  Nameless. 

"And  if  we  fail,  this  will  give  us  peacQ. 
It  is  a  quiet  messenger,  Gulian.  Within 
twelve  hours  after  the  contents  of  this  vial 
have  passed  the  lips,  the  body  >vill  sink  into 
a  peaceful  sleep,  without  one  sign  or  token 
to  tell  the  tale  of  suicide.  Yes,  Gulian,  if 
we  fail,  this  vial,  which  I  procured  with  dif- 
ficulty, and  which  I  have  treasured  for  years, 
will  enable  us  to  fall  asleep  in  each  other's 
arms,  and — forever !" 

"  Suicide  !"  echoed  Nameless,  gazing  now 
upon  the  vial,  then  upon  her  countenance, 
imbued  with  a  look  of  somber  enthuiifcm — 
"  You  have  thought  of  that?" 

"  0  had  this  vial  been  mine,  in  the  hour 
when,  pure  and  hopeful,  I  was  sold  into  the 
arms  of  shame,  do  you  think  that  for  an 
instant  I  would  have  hesitated  between  the 
death  that  lays  you  quietly  asleep  in  the 
coffin,  and  that  death  which  leaves  the  body 
living,  while  it  cankers  and  kills  the  soul?' 

Nameless  took  the  vial  from  her  hand  and 
regarded  it  long  and  ardently.  0  what 
words  can  picture  the  strange  look,  which 
then  came  over  his  face  !  He  uttered  a  deep 
sigh  and  placed  the  vial  in  her  hands  again. 
She  silently  placed  it  in  the  drawer  of  the 
cabinet. 

As  she  again  confronted  him,  their  eyes 
met, — they  understood  each  other. 

"Frank,"  said  Nameless  in  a  measured 
tone — "  Who  owns  this  house?  What  is  its 
true  character?" 

Seating  herself  beside  him  on  the  sofa  she 
replied  : 

"As  to  the  c/wner  of  this  house,  you  id*7 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


23 


be  sure  that  he  is  a  man  of  property  and 
moral  worth,  a  church-member  and  a  respect- 
able citizen.  But  do  not  imagine  for  a 
moment  that  this  is  a  common  haunt  of 
infamy — no,  my  friend,  no  !  None  but  the 
most  select^  the  most  aristocratic,  ever  cross 
the  threshold  of  this  place.  Remain  until 
twelve  o'clock  to-night  and  you  will  behold 
some  of  the  guests  who  honor  my  house 
with  their  presence." 

There  was  a  mocking  look  upon  her  face 
as  she  gave  utterance  to  these  words.  She 
beat  the  carpet  with  her  slipper  and  grasped 
the  cross  which  rested  on  her  bosom  ^^dth  a 
nervous  and  impatient  clutch. 

"At  twelve  to-night!"  echoed  Nameless, 
and  looked  into  her  face.  "  I  will  remain  ;" 
and  once  more  his  whole  being  was  enveloped 
in  the  magnetic  influence  which  flowed  from 
the  eyes  of  the  lost  woman. 

CHAPTER  II. 

FRANK  AND  HER   SINGULAR  VISITOR. 

It  will  soon  fall  to  our  task  to  depict  cer- 
tain scenes,  which  took  place  in  the  Empire 
City  on  the  23d  of  December,  between 
nightfall  and  midnight.  The  greater  portion 
of  these  scenes  will  find  their  legitimate  de- 
velopment in  "  THE  Temple,"  from  midnight 
until  morning;  while  others  will  lift  the 
"  Golden  Shroud"  and  uncover  to  our  gaze 
threads  and  arteries  of  that  great  social  heart 
of  New  York,  which  throbs  with  every  pang 
of  unutterable  misery,  or  dilates  and  bums 
with  every  pulse  of  voluptuous  luxury. 

Ere  we  commence  our  task,  let  us  look  in 
upon  a  scene  which  took  place  in  the  house  of 
Frank,  about  nightfall  and  (of  course)  before 
Nameless  had  sought  refuge  in  her  room. 

Frank  was  sitting  alone,  in  a  quiet  room 
near  a  desk  upon  which  pen  and  ink  and 
papers  were  spread.  It  was  the  room  de- 
voted to  the  management  of  her  household 
affairs.  She  sat  in  an  arm-chair,  with  her 
feet  on  a  stool  and  her  back  to  the  window, 
while  she  lifted  the  golden  cross  and  regarded 
it  with  an  absent  gaze.  The  white  curtains 
of  the  wmdows  were  turned  to  crimson  by 
the  reflection  of  the  setting  sun,  and  the 
warm  glow  shining  through  the  intervals  of 
her  black  hair,  which  fell  loosely  on  her 
ehouldere,  rested  warmly  upon  her  cheek. 
2 


Her  whole  attitude  was  that  of  revery  or 
dreamy  thought 

While  thus  occupied,  a  male  servant, 
dressed  in  rich  livery,  entered,  and  addressed 
his  mistress  in  these  words  : 

"  Madam,  he  wishes  to  see  you." 

"  He  !  Whom  do  you  mean?"  said  Frank, 
raising  her  eyes  but  without  changing  her 
position. 

"  That  queer  stranger,  who  never  gives  his 
name, — who  has  been  here  so  often  within 
the  last  three  weeks, — I  mean  the  one  who 
wears  the  blue  cloak  with  evcr-so-mauy 
capes." 

Frank  started  up  in  her  chair. 

"  Show  him  in,"  she  said, — "  Yet  stay  a 
moment,  Walker.  Are  all  the  arrangements 
made  for  to-night?" 

"  Everything  has  been  done,  precisely  as 
Madam  ordered  it  to  be  done,"  said  the  ser- 
vant obsequiously. 

He  then  retired  and  presently  the  visitor 
entered.  The  room  is  Avrapped  in  twilight 
and  we  cannot  trace  the  details  of  his  appear- 
ance clearly,  for  he  seats  himself  in  the 
shadow,  opposite  Frank.  We  can  discern, 
however,  that  his  tall  form,  bent  with  age,  is 
clad  in  a  blue  cloak  with  numerous  capes, 
and  he  wears  a  black  fur  hat  with  ample 
brim.  He  takes  his  seat  quietly,  and  rests 
his  hand  upon  the  head  of  his  cane. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  for  several 
minutes.  Each  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  the 
other  to  commence  the  conversation.  Frank 
at  last  broke  the  embarrassing  stillness. 

"  Soh  !  you  are  here  again." 

''Yes,  madam,"  replied  the  stranger  in  a 
hai*sh  but  not  unmusical  voice,  "  according  to 
appointment." 

"It  is  now  three  weeks  since  we  first 
met,"  said  Frank.  "You  purchased  this 
house  of  the  person  from  whom  I  leased  it, 
some  three  weeks  ago.  But  I  have  a  lease 
upon  it  which  has  yet  one  year  to  run.  You 
desire,  I  believe,  to  purchase  my  lease,  and 
enter  at  once  upon  possession?  Well,  sir, 
I  am  resolved  not  to  sell." 

Without  directly  replying  to  her  question, 
the  man  in  the  cloak  with  many  capes 
replied — 

"We  did  not  meet  three  weeks  ago  for 
the  first  time,"  he  said.  "  Our  first  meeting 
was  long  before  that  period." 


24 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


"What  mean  you?"  said  Frank  raising 
her  eyes  and  endeavoring,  although  vainly, 
to  pierce  the  gloom  which  enshrouded  the 
stranger.  "  0,  it  is  getting  dark.  I  will  ring 
for  lights." 

"  Before  you  ring  for  lights,  a  word, — "  the 
stranger's  voice  sank  but  Frank  heard  every 
word, — "  we  met  for  the  first  time  at  a 
funeral — " 

"At  a  funeral !" 

"At  a  funeral;  and  after  the  funeral  I  had 
the  hodij  taken  up  privately  and  ordered  a 
post  mortem  examination  to  be  made.  Upon 
that  body,  madam,  "  he  paused. 

"Well,  sir?"  Frank's  voice  was  tremu- 
lous. 

"  Upon  that  body  I  discovered  traces  of  a 
fatal  although  subtle  poison." 

Again  he  paused.  Frank  made  no  reply. 
Even  in  the  dim  light  it  might  be  seen  that 
her  head  sank  slowly  on  her  breast.  Did 
the  words  of  the  stranger  produce  a  strong 
impression?  We  cannot  see  her  face,  for  the 
room  is  vailed  in  twilight. 

"This  darkness  grows  embarrassing,"  he 
said,  "will  you  ring  for  lights?" 

She  replied  with  a  monosyllable,  uttered 
in  a  faint  voice, — "  No  I"  she  said,  then  a 
dead  stillness  once  more  ensued,  which  con- 
tinued until  the  stranger  again  spoke. 

"  In  regard  to  the  lease,  madam.  Do  you 
agree  to  sell,  and  upon  the  terms  which  I 
proposed  when  I  w-as  here  last?" 

Again  Frank  replied  with  a  monosyllable. 
"  Yes  I"  she  faintly  said. 

"And  the  other  proposition  :  to-night  you 
hold  some  sort  of  festival  in  this  i^lace.  I 
desire  to  know  the  names  of  all  your  guests; 
to  introduce  such  guests  as  I  choose  w^ithin 
these  walls ;  to  have,  for  one  night  only,  a 
certain  control  over  the  internal  economy  of 
this  place.  In  case  you  consent  to  this  pro- 
position, I  will  pay  you  for  the  lease  double 
the  amount  which  I  have  already  offered, 
and  promise,  on  my  honor,  to  do  nothing 
within  these  walls  to-night,  which  can  in 
the  slightest  degree  harm  or  compromise 
you." 

He  stated  his  proposition  slowly  and  de- 
liberately. Frank  took  full  time  to  ponder 
upon  every  wwd.  Simple  as  the  proposition 
looked,  well  she  knew,  that  it  might  embrace 
results  of  the  most  important  nature. 


"Must  I  consent?"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
faltered.    "  It  is  hard — " 

"  'Must'  is  no  word  in  the  case,  madam," 
answered  that  stern  even  voice.  "  Use  your 
own  will  and  pleasure." 

"But  the  request  is  so  strange,"  said 
Frank,  "  and  suppose  I  grant  it?  Who  can 
tell  the  consequences?" 

"It  is  singular,"  said  the  stranger  as 
though  thinking  aloud,  "  to  what  an  extent 
the  art  of  poisoning  was  carried  in  the  mid- 
dle ages !  The  art  has  long  been  lost, — 
people  poison  each  other  bunglingly  now-a- 
days, — although  it  is  said,  that  the  secret  ot 
a  certain  poison,  which  puts  its  victim* 
quietly  to  sleep,  leaving  not  the  slightest 
tell-tale  trace  or  mark,  has  survived  even  to 
the  present  day." 

Certainly  the  stranger  had  a  most  remark- 
able manner  of  thinking  aloud. 

Frank  spoke  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible  : 

"  I  consent  to  your  proposition." 

She  rose,  and  although  it  was  rapidly 
getting  qnite  dark,  she  unlocked  a  secret 
drawer  of  her  desk,  and  drew  from  thence 
two  packages. 

"  This  way,  sir,"  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice, 
and  the  stranger  rose  and  approached  her. 
"Here  you  will  find  the  names  of  all  my 
guests,  and  especially  of  those  who  will 
come  here  to-night.  You  will  find  such 
other  information  as  may  be  useful  to  you 
and  aid  your  purposes."  She  placed  the 
package  in  his  hand.  "  I  will  place  Walker 
and  the  other  servants  under  your  com- 
mand." She  paused,  and  resumed  after  an 
instant,  in  a  firmer  voice:  "If  I  have  yielded 
to  your  request,  it  has  not  been  altogether 
from  fear, — " 

"  Fear  !    Who  spoke  of  fear?" 

"  Don't  mock  me.  I  have  yielded  trom 
fear,  but  not  altogether  from  fear.  I  have 
nursed  a  hope  that  you  can  aid  me  to 
quit  this  thrice  accursed  life  which  I  now 
lead.  For  though  your  polite  manner  only 
thinly  vails  insinuations  the  most  deadly, 
yet  I  believe  you  have  a  heart.  I  feel  that 
when  you  know  all  of  my  past  life,  all, 
you  will  think,  I  do  not  say  better  of 
me,  but  difi"erently,  from  what  you  do 
now.  Here,  take  this  package,  —  it  con- 
tains my  history  written  hy  my  own  hand, 
and  only  intended  to  be  read  after  my 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


25 


death — ^but  you  may  read  it  now  or  at  your 
leisure." 

The  man  in  the  cloak  took  the  package  ; 
his  voice  trembled  when  he  spoke — 

"  Girl,  you  shall  not  regret  this  confidence. 
I  will  aid  you  to  quit  this  accursed  life." 

"  Leave  me  for  a  few  moments.  I  wish 
to  sit  alone  and  think  for  a  little  while. 
After  that  we  will  arrange  matters  in  regard 
to  the  festival  to-night." 

The  stranger  in  the  cloak  left  the  room, 
bearing  with  him  the  two  packages,  one  of 
which  embraced  the  mysteries  of  the  house 
of  Frank,  and  the  other  contained  the  story 
of  her  life. 

And  in  the  darkness,  Frank  walked  up 
and  down  the  room,  pressing  one  clenched 
hand  against  her  heaving  bosom,  and  the 
other  against  her  burning  brow. 

Soon  afterward,  Frank  and  the  stranger  in 
the  gld-fashioned  cloak,  w^ere  closeted  for 
half  an  hour  in  earnest  conversation. 

We  will  not  record  the  details  of  the  con- 
versation, but  its  results  will  perchance  be 
seen  in  the  future  pages  of  our  history. 

Here,  at  this  point  of  our  story,  let  ns 
break  the  seals  of  the  second  package  which 
Frank  gave  to  the  stranger,  and  linger  for  a 
little  while  upon  the  pages  of  her  history, 
written  by  her  own  hand.  A  strange  history 
in  every  line !  It  is  called  The  History  of 
THE  Midnight  Queen  ! 

CHAPTER  m. 

THE  CHILDHOOD  OF  THE  MIDNIGHT  QUEEN. 

My  childhood's  home  !  0,  is  there  in  all 
the  world  a  phrase  so  sweet  as  this,  *'My 
childhood's  home  !"  Others  may  look  back 
to  childhood,  and  be  stung  by  bitter  memo- 
ries, but  my  childhood  was  the  heaven  of 
my  life.  As  from  the  hopeless  present,  I 
gaze  back  upon  it,  I  seem  like  a  traveler, 
half  way  up  the  Alps,  surrounded  by  snow 
and  clouds  and  mist,  and  looking  back  upon 
the  happy  valley,  which,  dotted  with  homes 
and  rich  in  vines  and  flowers,  smiles  in  the 
sunshine  far  below. 

My  childhood's  home  was  very  beautiful. 
It  was  a  two-story  cottage,  situated  upon 
an  eminence,  its  white  front  and  rustic  porch, 
half  hidden  by  the  horse-ch-esnut  trees, 
which  in  the  early  summer  had  snowy  blos- 


\  soms  among  their  deep  green  leaves.  Behind 
the  cottage  arose  a  broad  and  swelling  hill, 
which,  fringed  with  gardens  at  its  base,  and 
crowned  on  its  summit  by  a  few  grand  old 
trees  standing  alone  against  the  sky,  was  in 
summer-time  clad  along  its  entire  extent 
with  a  garment  of  golden  wheat.  Beneath 
the  cottage  flowed  the  Neprehaun,  a  gentle 
rivulet,  which  wound  among  abrupt  hills, — 
every  hill  rich  in  foliage  and  dotted  with 
homes — until  it  lost  itself  in  the  waves  of 
the  Hudson.  Yes,  the  Hudson  was  there, 
grand  and  beautiful  and  visible  always  from 
the  cottage  porch  ;  the  Palisades  rising  from 
its  opposite  shore  into  heaven,  and  the  broad 
bay  of  Tapaan  Zee  glistening  in  sunlight  to 
the  north. 

0,  that  scene  is  before  me  now — the  cot- 
tage with  its  white  front,  half  hidden  by 
broad  green  leaves  intermingled  with  white 
blossoms,  —  the  hill,  which  rose  behind  it, 
golden  with  wheat, — the  Neprehaun  below, 
winding  among  the  hills,  now  in  sunshine, 
now  in  shadow, — the  Hudson,  \vith  its  vast 
bay  and  the  somber  wall  which  rose  into  the 
sky  from  its  western  shore, — it  is  before  me 
now,  with  the  spring  blossoms,  the  voices, 
the  sky,  the  very  air  of  my  childhood's  daj's. 

In  this  home  I  found  myself  at  the  age  of 
thirteen.  I  was  the  pupil  and  the  charge 
of  the  occupant  of  the  cottage,  a  retired 
clergyman,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Walworth,  who 
having  grown  gray  in  the  active  service  of 
his  Master,  had  come  there  to  pass  his  last 
days  in  the  enjoyment  of  competence  and 
peace.  Even  now,  as  on  the  day  when  I 
left  him  forever,  I  can  see  his  tall  form,  bent 
Avith  age  and  clad  in  black,  his  mild,  pale 
face,  with  hair  as  white  as  snow, — I  can  hear 
that  voice,  whose  very  music  was  made  up 
of  the  goodness  of  a  heart  at  peace  with 
God  and  man.  When  I  was  thirteen, 
myself,  the  good  clergyman,  and  an  aged 
woman  —  the  housekeeper  —  were  the  only 
occupants  of  the  cottage.  His  only  son  was 
away  at  college.  And  when  I  vas  thirteen, 
my  mother,  who  had  placed  me  in  the  care 
of  the  clergyman  years  before,  came  to  see 
me.  I  shall  never  forget  that  visit.  I  was 
sitting  on  the  cottage  por«h — it  was  a  June 
day — the  air  was  rich  with  fragrance  and  blos- 
soms— my  book  was  on  my  knee — when  I 
heard  her  step  in  the  garden- walk.    She  was 


26 


FKANK  VAIST  HUYDEN, 


tall  and  very  beautiful,  and  richly  clad  in 
Liack,  and  her  dark  attire  shone  with  dia- 
monds. Very  beautiful,  I  say,  although 
there  were  threads  of  silver  in  her  brown 
hair,  and  an  incessant  contraction  of  her  dark 
brows,  which  gave  a  look  of  anxiety  or  pain 
to  her  face. 

As  she  came  up  the  garden- walk,  pushing 
aside  her  vail  of  dark  lace,  I  knew  her, 
although  I  had  not  seen  her  for  three  years. 
Her  presence  was  strange  to  me,  yet  still  my 
heart  bounded  as  I  saw  her  come. 

"  Well,  Frank,"  she  said,  as  though  it  was 
but  yesterday  since  I  had  seen  her,  **  I  have 
come  to  see  you," — she  kissed  me  w^armly 
on  the  lips  and  cheeks. — "  Your  father  is 
dead,  my  child." 

A  tear  stood  in  her  dark  eye,  a  slight 
tremor  moved  her  lip — that  was  all.  My 
father  dead  I  I  can  scarcely  describe  the 
emotions  which  these  words  caused.  I  had 
not  seen  my  father  for  years.  There  was 
still  a  memory  of  his  face  present  with  me, 
coupled  with  an  indistinct  memory  of  my 
early  childhood,  passed  in  a  city  of  a  foreign 
land,  and  a  dim  vision  of  a  voyiige  upon  the 
ocean.  And  at  my  mother's  words  there 
came  up  the  laughing  face  and  sunny  hair 
of  my  brother  Gulian,  who  had  suddenly 
disappeared  about  the  time  my  parents 
returned  from  Paris,  and  just  before  I  had 
been  placed  in  the  charge  of  the  good  cler- 
gyman. These  mingling  memories  arose  at 
my  mother's  words,  and  although  the  good 
clergyman  stood  more  to  me  in  the  relation 
of  a  father  than  my  own  father,  still  I  wept 
bitterly  as  I  heard  the  words,  Your  father 
is  dead,  my  child." 

My  mother,  who  seemed  to  me  like  one 
of  those  grand,  rich  ladies  of  whom  I  had 
read  in  story-books,  seated  herself  beside  me 
on  the  cottage  porch. 

"  You  are  getting  quite  beautiful,  Frank," 
she  said,  and  lifted  my  sunbonnet  and  put 
her  hand  through  the  curls  of  my  hair, 
which  was  black  as  jet.  "  You  will  be  a 
woman  soon."  She  kissed  me,  and  then  as 
she  timied  away,  I  heard  her  mutter  these 
w^ords  which  struck  me  painfully  although 
then  I  could  not  understand  them :  "  A 
woman  !  with  your  mother's  beauty  for  your 
dowry  and  your  mother's  fate  for  your 
futuio !" 


The  slight  wrinkle  between  her  brows 
grew  deeper  as  she  said  these  words. 

"  You  will  be  a  woman,  and  must  have  an 
education  suitable  to  the  station  you  will 
occupy,"  continued  my  mother,  drawing  me 
quietly  to  her,  and  surveying  me  earnestly. 
"Now  what  do  tliey  teach  you  here?" 

She  laughed  as  I  gravely  related  the  part 
which  good  old  Alice — the  housekeeper- 
took  in  my  education.  Old  Alice  taught  me 
all  the  details  of  housekeeping ;  to  sow,  to 
knit,  the  fabrication  of  good  pies,  good  but- 
ter, and  good  bread ;  the  mystery  of  the 
preparation  of  various  kinds  of  preserves;  in 
fact,  all  the  details  of  housekeeping  as  she 
understood  it.  And  the  good  old  dame,  with 
her  high  cap,  clear,  bright  little  eyes,  sharp 
nose,  and  white  apron  strung  with  a  bundle 
of  keys,  always  concluded  her  lesson  with  a 
mysterious  intimation  that,  saving  the  good 
Mr.  Walworth  only,  all  the  men  in  the 
world  were  monsters,  more  dangerous  than 
the  bears  which  ate  up  the  bad  children  who 
mocked  at  Elijah. 

Laughing  heartily  as  she  heard  me  gravely 
enter  into  all  these  details,  which  I  con- 
cluded with,  "  You  see,  mother,  I'm  quite  a 
housekeeper  already  1"  she  continued  : 

"And  what  does  he  teach  you,  my  dear?' 

The  laughter  which  animated  her  face, 
was  succeeded  by  a  look  of  vague  curiosity 
as  I  began  my  answer.  But  as  I  went  on, 
her  face  became  sad  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

My  father  (as  I  had  learned  to  call  the 
good  clergyman)  taught  me  to  read,  to  write, 
and  to  cipher.  He  gradually  disclosed  to 
mo  (more  by  his  conversation  than  through 
the  medium  of  books)  the  history  of  past 
ages,  the  wonders  of  the  heavens  above  me, 
the  properties  of  the  plants  and  flowers  that 
grew  in  my  path.  And  oftentimes  by  the 
bright  wood-fire  in  winter,  or  upon  the 
porch  under  the  boughs,  in  the  rich  twilight 
of  the  summer  scenery  —  while  the  stars 
twinkled  through  the  leaves,  or  the  Hudson 
glistened  in  the  light  of  the  rising  moon — 
he  had  talked  to  me  of  God.  Of  his  love 
for  all  of  us,  his  providence  watching  the 
sparrow's  fall,  his  mercy  reaching  forth  its 
almighty  arms  to  the  lowest  of  earth's 
stricken  children.  Of  the  other  world,  which 
stretches  beyond  the  shores  of  the  present, 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


27 


not  dim  and  cloud-sliadowed,  but  rich  in  the 
sunlight  of  eternal  love,  and  living  with  the 
realities  of  a  state  of  being  in  which  there 
shall  be  no  more  sickness  nor  pain,  and  tears 
shall  be  wiped  from  every  eye,  and  all  things 
be  made  new. 

Of  the  holy  mother  watching  over  her 
holy  child,  while  the  stars  shone  in  upon  his 
humble  bed  in  the  manger, — of  that  child, 
in  early  boyhood,  sitting  in  the  temple  con- 
founding grave  men,  learned  in  the  logic  of 
the  world,  by  the  simple  intuitions  of  a  heart 
filled  with  the  presence  of  God, — of  the  way 
of  life  led  by  that  mother's  child,  wdien 
thirty  years  had  set  the  seal  of  the  divine 
manhood  on  his  brow.  How  after  the  day's 
hard  travel,  he  stopped  to  rest  at  the  cottage 
home  of  Martha  and  Mary, — how  he  took 
up  little  children  and  Messed  them, — how 
the  blind  began  to  see,  the  deaf  to  hear^  the 
dead  to  live,  at  sound  of  his  voice, — how 
on  the  calm  of  evening,  in  a  modest  room, 
he  took  his  last  supper  with  the  Twelve, 
John  resting  on  his  bosom,  Judas  scowling 
in  the  background, — how,  amid  the  olives  of 
O-ethsemane,  at  dead  ©f  night,  while  his  dis- 
ciples slept,  he  went  through  the  unutterable 
agony  alone  until  an  angel^s  hand  wiped  the 
sweat  of  blood  from  his  brow, — how  he  died 
upon  the  felon's  tree,  the  heavens  black  above 
him,  the  earth  beneath  him  dark  with  the 
vast  multitude, — and  how,  on  the  clear  Sab- 
bath morn  he  rose  again,  and  called  the 
faithful  woman,  who  had  followed  him  to 
the  sepulcher,  by  the  name  which  his  mother 
bore,  spoken  in  the  old  familiar  tone  — 
Mary  t*'  How  he  walked  the  earth  in 
bodily  form  eighteen  hundred  years  ago, 
shedding  the  presence  of  God  around  him, 
and  even  now  he  walked  it  still  in  spiritual 
hodj,  shedding  still  upon  sin-stricken  and 
sorrowing  hearts  the  presence  and  the  love 
of  God  the  Father.  Lessons  such  as  these, 
the  good  clergyman,  my  father  (as  I  called 
him)  taught  me,  instructing  me  always  to  do 
good  and  lead  a  life  free  from  sin,  not  from 
fear  of  damnation  or  hell,  but  because  good- 
ness is  growth,  a  good  life  is  ho/ppiness.  A 
flower  shut  out  from  the  light  is  damned  :  it 
cannot  grow.  An  evil  life  here  or  hereafter , 
is  in  itself  damnation;  for  it  is  ivant  of  \ 
growth,  paralysis  or  decay  of  all  the  nobler  ^ 
faculties.  ; 


As  in  my  own  way,  and  with  such  words 
as  I  could  command,  I  recounted  the  manner 
in  which  the  good  clergyman  educated  me, 
my  mother's  face  grew  sad  and  tearful.  She 
did  not  speak  for  some  minutes ;  her  gaze 
was  downcast,  and  through  her  long  dark 
eyelashes  the  tears  began  to  steal. 

"A  dream,"  she  muttered,  "only  a  dream! 
Did  he  know  mankind  and  know  but  a  por- 
tion of  their  unfathomable  baseness,  he 
would  see  the  impossibility  of  making  them 
better,  would  feel  the  necessity  of  an  actual 
hell,  black  as  the  darkest  that  a  poet  ever 
fancied.'' 

As  she  was  thus  occupied  in  her  own 
thoughts,  a  step — a  well-known  step — re- 
sounded on  the  garden-walk,  and  the  good 
clergyman  advanced  from  the  wicket-gate  to 
the  porch.  Even  now  I  see  that  pale  face, 
with  the  white  hair  and  large  clear  eyes ! 

He  advanced  and  took  my  mother  cor- 
dially by  the  hand,  and  was  much  affected 
when  he  heard  of  my  father's  death.  My 
mother  thanked  him  warmly  for  the  care 
which  he  had  taken  of  her  child. 

"This  child  will  be  a  woman  soon,  and 
she  must  be  prepared  to  enter  upon  life  with 
all  the  accomplishments  suitable  to  the  posi- 
tion which  she  will  occupy,"  continued  my 
mother ;  "  I  wish  her  to  remain  with  you 
until  she  is  ready  to  enter  the  great  world. 
But  she  must  have  proper  instruction  ia 
music  and  dancing.  She  must  not  be  alto- 
gether a  wild  country  girl,  when  she  goes 
into  society.  But,  however,  my  dear  Mr. 
Walworth,  we  will  talk  of  this  alone." 

Young  as  I  was  I  could  perceive  that  there 
was  a  mystery  about  my  mother,  her  pre- 
vious life,  or  present  position,  which  the 
good  clergyman  did  not  feel  himself  called 
upon  to  penetrate. 

She  took  his  arm  and  led  him  into  the 
cottage,  and  they  conversed  for  a  long  time 
alone,  while  I  remained  upon  the  porch, 
buried  in  a  sort  of  dreamy  revery,  and  watch- 
ing the  white  clouds  as  they  sailed  along  the 
summer  sky. 

"I  shall  be  absent  two  years,.** I  heard  my 
mother's  voice,  as  leaning  on  the  good  cler- 
i  gyman's  arm  she  again  c^me  forth  upon  the 
:  porch  ;  "  see  that  when  I  return,  in  place  of 
I  this  pretty  chilli  you  will  present  to  me  a 
;  beautifu,!;  ajid  accomplished  lady." 


28 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


She  took  me  in  her  arms  and  kissed  me, 
^vhile  Mr,  "Walworth  exclaimed  : 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  madam,  I  can  never 
allow  myself  to  think  of  Frances'  leaving 
this  home  while  I  am  living.  She  has  been 
■with  me  so  long — ^is  so  dear  to  me — that  the 
very  thought  of  parting  with  her,  is  like 
tearing  my  heart-strings  !" 

He  spoke  with  undisguised  emotion ;  my 
mother  took  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  and 
again  thanked  kim  for  the  care  and  love 
^vhich  he  had  lavished  on  her  child. 

At  length  she  said  "Farewell'."  and  I 
watched  her  as  she  went  down  the  garden- 
walk  to  the  wicket  gate,  and  then  across  the 
road,  until  she  entered  a  by-path  which 
wound  among  the  hills  of  the  Neprehaun 
into  the  valley  below.  She  was  lost  to  my 
sight  in  the  shadows  of  the  foliage.  She 
emerged  to  view  again  far  down  the  valley, 
and  I  saw  her  enter  her  grand  carriage,  and 
saw  her  kerchief  waving  from  the  carriage 
window,  as  it  rolled  away. 

I  watched,  01  how  earnestly  I  watched, 
until  the  carriage  rose  to  sight  on  the  sum- 
mit of  a  distant  hill,  beyond  the  spire  of  the 
village  church.  Then,  as  it  disappeared  and 
bore  my  mother  from  my  sight,  I  sat  down 
and  wept  bitterly. 

Would  I  had  never  seen  her  face  again  I 

A  year  passed  away. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

MAIDENHOOD. 

It  was  June  again.  One  summer  even- 
ing I  took  the  path  which  led  from  the 
garden  to  the  summit  of  the  hill  which 
rose  behind  the  cottage.  As  I  pursued 
my  way  upward  the  sun  was  setting,  and 
at  every  step  I  obtained  a  broader  glimpse 
of  the  river,  the  dark  Palisades,  and  the 
bay  white  with  sails.  When  I  reached  the 
summit,  the  sun  was  on  the  verge  of  the 
horizon,  and  the  sky  in  the  west  all  purple 
and  gold.  Seating  myself  on  the  huge  rock, 
which  rose  on  the  summit,  surrounded  by  a 
circle  of  grand  old  trees,  I  surrendered  my- 
self to  the  quiet  and  serenity  of  the  evening 
hour.  The  view  was  altogether  beautiful. 
Beneath  me  sloped  the  broad  hills,  clad  in 
wheat  which  already  was  changing  from 
emerald  to  gold.    Farther  down,  my  cottage 


home  half  hidden  among  trees.  Then  be- 
neath the  cottage,  the  homes  of  the  village 
dotting  the  hills,  among  wljich  wound  the 
Neprehaun.  The  broad  river  and  the  wide 
bay  heaving  gently  in  the  fading  light,  and 
the  dark  Palisades  rising  blackly  against  the 
gold  and  purple  sky.  A  lovelier  view  can- 
not be  imagined.  And  the  air  was  full  of 
summer — scented  with  breath  of  vines  and 
blossoms  and  new-mown  hay.  As  I  surren- 
dered myself  to  thoughts  which  arose  unbid- 
den, the  first  star  came  tremulously  into 
view,  and  the  twilight  began  to  deepen  into 
night.  I  was  thinking  of  my  life — of  the 
past — of  the  future.  A  strange  vision  of  the 
great  world,  struggled  into  dim  shape  before 
the  eye  of  my  mind. 

"A  year  more,  and  I  will  enter  the  great 
world  I"  I  ejaculated.  A  hand  was  laid 
lightly  on  my  shoulder.  I  started  to  my 
feet  w'th  a  shriek. 

"What,  Frank,  don't  you  know  me?"  said 
a  half  laughing  voice,  and  I  beheld  beside 
me  »  youth  of  some  nineteen  or  twenty 
years,  whose  face,  shaded  by  dark  hair,  was 
touche<^  by  the  last  flush  of  the  declining 
day.  JK  was  Ernest-  the  only  son  of  the 
good  clp'ycyman.  I  had  not  seen  him  for 
three  year?-  In  that  time,  he  had  grown 
from  boyho<>^  into  young  manhood.  He  sat 
beside  me  on  tKe  rock,  and  we  talked  together 
as  freely  as  wh^^n  we  were  but  little  child- 
ren. Ernest  wa*  full  of  life  and  hope  ;  his 
voice  grew  deep,  bis  dark  eyes  large  and 
lustrous,  as  he  spoliA  of  the  prospects  of  his 
future. 

"In  one  year,  FrarJc^  I  will  graduate  and 
then,  —  then,  —  the  great  world  lies  before 
me  1"    His  gaze  was  turncil  dreamily  to  the 

j  west,  and  his  fine  features  drawn  in  distinct 
profile  against  the  evening  sky. 

1  "And  what  part,  Ernest,  will  you  play  in 
the  great  world?" 

I     "  Father  wishes  me  to  enter  into  the  min- 
'  istry,  but, — "  and  he  uttered  a  joyous,  con- 
I  fident  laugh,  — "  whatever  part  I  play,  I 
know  that  I  will  win  !" 

1  He  uttered  these  words  in  the  tone  of 
youth  and  hope,  that  has  never  been  dark- 
ened by  a  shadow,  and  then  turning  to  me, — 

I     "And  you,  Frank,  what  part  will  you  play 

'  in  the  great  world?"  he  said. 

i    "I  know  not.    My  career  is  in  the  hiyids 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


20 


of  my  only  parent,  who  will  come  next  year 
to  take  me  hence.    My  childhood  has  been 

wrapped  in  mystery;  and  my  future,  0, 

who  can  foretell  the  future?" 

He  gazed  at  me,  for  the  first  time,  with  an 
earnest  and  searching  gaze.  His  eyes,  large 
and  gray,  and  capable  of  the  most  varied 
expression,  became  absent  and  dreamy. 

"  You  are  very  beautiful !"  he  said,  as 
though  thinking  aloud, — "  0,  very  beautiful ! 
You  will  marry  rich, —  yes, —  wealth  and 
position  will  be  yours  at  once." 

And  as  the  moon,  rising  over  the  brow  of 
the  hill,  poured  her  light  upon  his  thought- 
ful face,  he  took  my  hand  and  said  : 

"  Frank,  why  is  it  that  certain  natures  live 
only  in  the  future  or  the  past — never  in  the 
present  ?  Look  at  ourselves,  for  instance. 
Yonder  among  the  trees,  bathed  in  the  light 
of  the  rising  moon,  lies  the  cottage  home  in 
which  we  have  passed  the  happiest,  holiest 
hours  of  life.  Of  that  home  we  are  not 
thinking  now — we  are  only  looking  forward 
to  the  future — and  yet  the  time  will  come, 
when  immersed  in  the  conflict  of  the  world, 
we  will  look  back  to  that  home,  with  the 
same  yearning  that  one,  stretched  upon  the 
couch  of  hopeless  disease,  looks  forward  to 
his  grave !" 

His  voice  was  low  and  solemn — I  never 
forgot  his  words.  We  sat  for  many  minutes, 
m  silence.  At  length  without  a  word,  he 
took  my  hand,  and  we  went  down  the  hill 
together,  by  the  light  of  the  rising  moon. 
We  climbed  the  stile,  passed  under  the  gar- 
den boughs,  and  entered  the  cottage,  and 
found  the  good  old  man  seated  in  his  library 
-among  his  books.  He  raised  his  eyes  as  we 
came  in,  hand  joined  in  hand,  and  a  look  of 
undisguised  pleasure  stole  over  his  face. 

"  See  here,  father,"  said  Ernest  laughingly, 
"when  I  went  to  college,  I  left  my  little 
sister  in  your  care.  I  now  return,  and  dis- 
cover that  my  little  sister  has  disappeared, 
and  left  in  her  place  this  wild  girl,  whom  I 
found  wandering  to-night  among  the  hills. 
Don't  you  think  there  is  something  like  a 
witch  in  her  eyes?" 

The  old  man  smiled  and  laid  his  hand  on 
my  dark  hair. 

"Would  to  heaven!"  he  said,  "that  she 
might  never  leave  this  quiet  home."  And 
ihe  prayer  came  from  his  heart. 


Ernest  remained  with  us  until  fall.  Those 
were  happy  days.  We  read,  we  talked,  we 
walked,  we  lived  with  each  other.  More 
like  sister  and  sister  than  brother  and  sister, 
we  wandered  arm-in-arm  to  the  brow  of  the 
hill  as  the  rich  summer  evening  came  on, — 
or  crossed  the  river  in  early  morning,  and 
climbed  the  winding  road  that  led  to  the 
brow  of  the  Palisades,  —  or  sat,  at  night, 
under  the  trees  by  the  river's  bank,  watching 
the  stars  as  they  looked  down  into  the  calm 
water.  Sometimes  at  night,  we  sat  in  the 
library,  and  I  read  while  the  old  man's  hand 
rested  gently  on  my  head  and  Ernest  sat  by 
my  side.  And  often  upon  the  porch,  as  the 
summer  night  wore  on,  Ernest  and  myself 
sang  together  some  old  familiar  hymn,  while 
"Father"  listened  in  quiet  delight.  Thus 
three  months  passed  away,  and  Ernest  left 
for  college. 

"  Next  year,  Frank,  I  graduate,"  he  cried, 
his  thoughtful  face  flushed  with  hope,  and 
his  gray  eyes  full  of  joyous  light — "and 
then  for  the  battle  with  the  world  1" 

He  left,  and  the  cottage  seemed  blank 
and  desolate.  The  good  clergyman  felt  his 
absence  most  keenly. 

"Well,  well,"  he  would  mutter,  "a  year 
is  soon  round  and  then  Ernest  will  be  with 
us  again !" 

As  for  myself,  I  tried  my  books,  my  harp, 
took  long  walks  alone,  busied  myself  in 
household  cares,  but  I  could  not  reconcile 
myself  to  the  absence  of  Ernest. 

Winter  came,  and  one  night  a  letter 
arrived  from  Ernest  to  his  father,  and  in 
that  letter  one  for — Frank  !  How  eagerly  I 
took  it  from  "  father's"  hand  and  hurried  to 
my  room, — that  room  which  I  remember  yet 
so  vividly,  with  its  window  opening  on  the 
garden,  and  the  picture  of  the  Virgin  Mary 
on  the  snow-white  wall.  Unmindful  of  the 
cold,  I  sat  down  alone  and  perused  the  let- 
ter, O,  how  eagerly  !  It  was  a  letter  from  a 
brother  to  a  sister,  and  yet  beneath  the  calm 
current  of  a  brother's  love,  there  flowed  a 
deeper  and  a  wanner  love.  How  joyously 
he  spoke  of  his  future,  and  how  strangely 
he  seemed  to  mingle  my  name  with  every 
image  of  that  future  !  I  read  his  letter  over 
and  over,  and  slept  with  it  upon  my  bosom  ; 
and  I  dreamed,  01  such  air-castle  dreams,  in 
I  which  a  whole  lifetime  seemed  to  pass  away, 


30 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


■while  Ernest  and  Frank,  always  young, 
always  bappy,  went  wandering,  hand-in- 
hand,  under  skies  without  a  cloud.  But  I 
awoke  in  fright  and  terror.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  a  cold  hand — like  the  hand  of  a 
corpse — was  laid  upon  my  bosom,  and  some- 
how I  thought  that  my  mother  was  dead 
and  that  it  was  her  hand.  I  started  up  in 
fright  and  tears,  and  lay  shuddering  until 
the  rising  sun  shone  gayly  through  the 
frosted  window-pane. 

Another  year  had  nearly  passed  away. 

It  was  June  again,  and  it  was  toward 
evening  that  I  stood  upon  the  cottage  porch 
"watching — not  the  cloudless  sky  and  glorious 
river  bathed  in  the  setting  sun — but  watch- 
ing earnestly  for  the  sound  of  a  footstep. 
Ernest  was  expected  home.  He  had  gradu- 
ated with  all  the  honors — he  was  coming 
home!  How  I  watched  and  waited  for  that 
■welcome  step  !  At  last  the  wdcket-gate  was 
opened,  and  Ernest*s  step  resounded  on  the 
garden- walk.  Concealing  myself  among  the 
vines  which  covered  one  of  the  pillars  of  the 
porch,  I  watched  him  as  he  approached, 
determining  to  burst  upon  him  in  a  glad  sur- 
prise as  soon  as  he  reached  the  steps.  His 
head  was  downcast,  he  walked  with  slow 
and  thoughtful  steps ;  his  long  black  hair 
fell  wild  and  tangled  on  his  shoulders. 
The  joyous  hue  of  youth  on  his  cheek  had 
been  replaced  by  the  pallor  of  long  and 
painful  thought.  The  hopeful  boy  of  the 
last  year  had  been  changed  into  the  moody 
and  ambitious  man !  As  he  came  on, 
although  my  heart  swelled  to  bursting  at 
sight  of  him,  I  felt  awed  and  troubled,  and 
forgot  my  original  intention  of  biu-sting  upon 
him  in  a  merry  surprise.  He  reached  the 
porch — he  ascended  the  step — and  I  glided 
silently  from  behind  the  pillar  and  con- 
fronted him.  0,  how  his  face  lighted  up  as 
he  saw  me !  His  eyes,  no  longer  glassy  and 
abstracted,  were  radiant  with  a  delight  too 
deep  for  words  ! 

"  Frank !"  he  said,  and  silently  pressed 
my  hand. 

"Ernest,"  was  all  I  could  repl}-,  and  we 
stood  in  silence — both  trembling,  agitated — 
and  gazing  into  each  other's  eyes. 

The  good  Clergyman  was  happy  that  eve- 
ning, as  he  sat  at  the  supper  table,  with 
Frank  on  one  hand  and  Ernest  on  the  other. 


And  old  Alice  peering  at  us  through  her 
spectacles  could  not  help  remarking,  "  Well, 
well,  only  yesterday  childi-en,  and  now  such 
a  handsome  couple!*^ 

CHAPTER  V. 

ON    THE  BOCK. 

After  supper,  Ernest  and  I  went  to  the 
rock  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  where  we 
had  met  the  year  before.  The  scene  wa» 
the  same, — ^the  river,  the  bay,  the  dark  Pal- 
isades, and  the  vast  sky  illumined  by  the 
rising  moon,  —  but  somehow  we  seemed 
changed.  We  sat  apart  from  each  other  on 
the  rock,  and  sat  for  a  long  time  in  silence. 
Ernest,  with  downcast  eyes,  picked  in  an  ab- 
sent way  at  some  flowers  which  grew  in  the 
crevices  of  the  rock.  And  I, — well  I  believe 
I  tied  the  strings  of  my  sun-bormet  into  all 
sorts  of  knots.  I  felt  half  disposed  to  laugh 
and  half  disposed  to  cry. 

At  last  I  broke  the  silence  : — 

"  You  have  fulfilled  your  words,  Eme§t," 
I  said,  "  You  have  graduated  with  all  th^ 
honors — as  last  year  you  said  you  would,— 
and  now  a  bright  career  stretches  before  you. 
You  will  go  forth  into  the  great  world,  you 
will  battle,  you  will  win  I" 

"Frank,"  said  he,  stretching  forth  his 
hand, — "  Do  you  see  yonder  river  as  it  flows 
broad  and  rapid,  in  the  light  of  the  rising- 
moon?  You  speak  of  a  bright  career  before 
me — ^now  I  almost  wish  that  I  was  quietly 
asleep  beneath  those  w^aves." 

The  sadness  of  his  tone  and  look  went  to 
my  heart. 

"  You  surprise  me,  Frank.  Now," — and 
I  attempted  a  laugh — "  You  have  not  fallen 
in  love,  since  last  year,  have  you  ?" 

He  looked  up  and  surveyed  me  from  head 
to  foot.  I  was  dressed  in  white — my  hair 
fell  in  loose  curls  to  my  shoulders.  In  a  year 
I  had  passed  from  the  girl  into  the  woman. 
I  was  taller,  my  form  more  roundly  devel- 
oped. And  as  he  gazed  upon  me,  I  was 
conscious  that  he  was  remarking  the  change 
which  had  taken  place  in  my  appearance, 
and  that  his  look  was  one  of  ardent  admira- 
tion. 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  have  fallen  in  love 
since  last  year  ?"  he  said  slowly  and  with  a 
meaning  look. 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


31 


I  turned  away  from  his  gaze,  and  ex- 
claimed— 

"  But  you  are  moody,  Ernest.  Last  year 
you  were  so  hopeful — now  so  melancholy. 
You  can,  you  will  succeed  in  life." 

"  That  I  can  meet  with  what  the  world 
calls  success,  I  do  not  doubt,"  he  replied  : 
"  There  is  the  career  of  the  popular  preacher, 
armed  with  a  white  handkerchief  and  a  vel- 
vet Gospel,  —  of  the  lawyer,  growing  rich 
with  the  rent  paid  to  him  by  crime,  and  de- 
voting all  the  powers  of  his  immortal  soul 
to  prove  that  black  is  white  and  white  is 
black — of  the  merchant,  who  sees  only  these 
words  painted  upon  the  face  of  God's  uni- 
verse, 'Buy  cheap  and  sell  dear,' — careers 
such  as  these,  Frank,  are  before  me,  and  I 
am  free  to  choose,  and  doubt  not  but  that  I 
could  succeed  in  any  of  them.  But  to  achieve 
such  success  I  would  not  spend,  I  do  not  say 
the  labor  of  years — No, — I  would  not  spend 
the  thought  of  a  single  hour." 

"  But  the  life  of  a  good  Minister  of  the 
Gospel,  Ernest,  living  in  some  quiet  country 
town,  dividing  his  time  between  his  parish- 
ioners and  his  books,  and  dwelling  in  a  home 
like  the  cottage  yonder — what  say  you  to 
such  a  life,  Ernest  ?" 

He  raised  his  eyes,  and  again  surveyed  me 
earnestly — "Ambitious  as  I  am,  I  would 
sacrifice  every  thought  of  ambition  for  a  life 
such  as  you  picture — ^but  upon  one  condi- 
tion,"— he  paused — 

"  And  that  condition  ?"  I  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Ask  your  own  heart,"  was  his  reply,  ut- 
tered in  a  tremulous  voice. 

I  felt  m]^bosom  heave, — was  agitated, 
trembling  I  knew  not  why, — but  I  made  no 
answer. 

There  was  a  long  and  painful  pause. 

"  The  night  is  getting  chill,"  I  said  at 
length,  for  want  of  something  better  to  say  : 
"  Father  is  waiting  for  us.  Let  us  go  home." 

I  led  the  way  down  the  path,  and  he  fol- 
lowed moodily,  without  a  word.  As  he 
helped  me  over  the  stile  I  saw  that  his  face 
was  pale,  his  lips  tightly  compressed.  And 
when  we  came  into  the  presence  of  his  Fa- 
ther, he  replied  to  the  old  man's  kind  ques- 
tions, in  a  vacant  and  abstracted  manner.  I 
bade  him  "  good  night !"  at  last ;  he  answer- 
ed me,  but  added  in  a  lower  tone,  inaudible 


to  the  old  man,  "  Young  and  rich  and  beau- 
tiful, you  are  beyond  the  reach  of — a  country 
clergyman.^' 

The  next  morning  while  we  were  at  break- 
fast, a  letter  came.  It  was  from  my  mother. 
To-morrow  she  would  come  and  take  me 
from  the  cottage ! 

The  letter  dropped  from  the  old  man's 
hand,  and  Ernest  rising  abruptly  from  the 
table,  rushed  from  the  room. 

And  I  was  to  leave  the  home  of  my  hap- 
piest hours,  and  go  forth  into  the  great  world! 
The  thought  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  upon 
every  heart  in  the  cottage. 

CHAPTER  YL 

AMONG  THE  PALISADES. 

After  an  hour  Ernest  met  me  on  the 
porch  ;  he  was  very  pale. 

"  Frank,"  said  he,  kindly,  "  To-morrow  you 
will  leave  its  forever.  Would  you  not  like 
to  see  once  more  the  place  yonder," — he 
pointed  across  the  river  to  the  Palisades — 
"  where  we  spent  so  many  happy  hours  last 
summer  ?" 

He  spoke  of  that  dear  nook,  high  up  among 
the  rocks,  encircled  by  trees,  and  canopied 
by  vines,  where,  we  had  indeed  spent  many 
a  happy  hour. 

I  made  no  reply,  but  put  on  my  sun-bon- 
net and  took  his  arm,  and  in  a  little  while 
we  were  crossing  the  river,  he  rowing,  while 
I  sat  in  the  stern.  It  was  a  beautiful  day. 
We  arrived  at  the  opposite  shore,  at  a  point 
where  the  perpendicular  wall  of  the  Pali- 
sades, is  for  a  mile  or  more,  broken  by  a  huge 
and  sloping  hill,  covered  with  giant  forest 
trees.  Together  we  took  the  serpentine  path, 
which,  winding  toward  all  points  of  the 
compass,  led  to  the  top  of  the  Palisades. 
The  birds  were  singing,  the  broad  forest 
leaves  and  hanging  vines  quivered  in  the  sun, 
the  air  wa.s  balmy,  and  the  day  the  very  em- 
bodiment of  the  freshness  and  fragrance  of 
June.  As  we  w-ound  up  the  road  (whose 
brown  graveled  surface  contrasted  with  the 
foliage),  we  saw  the  sunlight  streaming  in 
upon  the  deep  shadows  of  the  wood,  and 
heard  from  afar  the  lulling  music  of  a  water- 
fall. Departing  from  the  beaten  road,  we 
wandered  among  the  forest  trees,  and  talked 
together  as  gladly  and  as  familiarly  as  in  other 


82 


FRANK  VAN  HUTDEN. 


days.  There  we  wandered  for  hours,  now 
in  sunlight,  now  in  shadow,  now  resting  upon 
the  brow  of  some  moss-covered  rock,  and 
now  stopping  beside  a  spring  of  clear  cold 
water,  half  hidden  by  thick  green  leaves. 
As  noon  drew  near,  we  ascended  to  the  top 
of  the  forest  hill,  and  passing  through  a  wil- 
derness of  tangled  vines,  came  suddenly  upon 
a  rude  farmhouse,  one  story  high,  built  of 
logs,  whose  dark  surface  contrasted  with  the 
verdure  of  the  garden  and  the  foliage  of  the 
overshadowing  tree.  It  was  the  same  as  in 
the  year  before.  There  was  the  well-pole 
rising  above  its  roof  and  the  well-bucket 
moist  with  clear  cold  water,  and  in  the  door- 
way stood  the  farmer's  dame,  who  had  often 
welcomed  us  to  her  quiet  home. 

"  Bless  me !  how  handsome  my  children 
have  grown !"  she  cried,  **  and  how's  the 
good  Domiue  ?  Come  in,  come  in  ;  the  folks 
are  all  away  in  the  fields  ;  come  in  and  rest 
you,  and  have  some  pie  and  milk,  and" — she 
paused  for  breath — "  and  some  dinner." 

The  good  dame  would  take  no  denial,  and 
we  sat  down  to  dinner  with  her — I  can  see 
the  scene  before  me  now — the  carefully  sand- 
ed floor,  the  old  clock  in  the  corner,  the  cup- 
board glistering  with  the  burnished  pewter, 
the  neatly  spread  table,  the  broad  hearth, 
covered  with  green  boughs,  and  the  open 
windows,  with  the  sunbeams  playing  through 
the  encircling  vines.  And  then  the  good 
dame  with  her  high  cap,  round,  good-hu- 
mored face,  and  spectacles  resting  on  the 
bridge  of  her  hooked  nose.  As  we  broke 
the  home-made  bread  with  her,  we  were  as 
gay  as  larks. 

"Well,  I  do  like  to  see  young  folks  enjoy 
themselves,"  said  the  dame. — "  You  don't 
know  how  often  I've  thought  of  you  since 
you  were  here  last  summer.  I  have  said, 
and  I  will  say  it,  that  a  handsomer  brother 
and  sister  I  never  yet  did  see." 

"  But  you  mistake,"  said  Ernest,  "  We're 
not  brother  and  sister." 

"  Only  cousins,"  responded  the  dame,  sur- 
veying us  attentively,  "Well,  I'm  glad  of  it, 
for  there's  no  law  ag'in  cousins  marryin',  and 
you'd  make  such  a  handsome  couple."  And 
she  laughed  mitil  her  sides  shook. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

IN  THE  FOREST  NOOK. 

Leaving  the  farmhouse,  we  bent  our  way 
to  the  Palisades  again.  We  had  been  gay 
and  happy  all  the  morning,  now  we  became 
thoughtful.  We  entered  a  narrow  path,  and 
presently  came  upon  the  dear  nook  where 
we  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours.  It  was 
a  quiet  space  of  green-sward  and  velvet  moss, 
encircled  on  all  sides,  save  one,  by  the  trunks 
of  giant  forest  trees — the  oak,  the  tulip  pop- 
lar and  the  sycamore  —  which  arose  like 
rugged  columns,  their  branches  forming  a 
roof  far  overhead.  Half-way  between  the 
sward  and  the  branches,  hung  a  drapery  of 
vines,  swinging  in  the  simlight,  and  shower- 
ing blossoms  and  fragrance  on  the  summer 
air.  Light  shrubbery  grew  between  the  m^- 
sive  trunks  of  the  trees,  and  in  one  part  of 
the  glade  a  huge  rock  arose,  its  summit  pro- 
jecting over  the  sward,  and  forming  a  sort  of 
canopy  or  shelter  for  a  rustic  seat  fashioned 
of  oaken  boughs.  Looking  upward  through 
the  drapery  of  vines  and  the  roof  of  boughs, 
only  one  glimpse  of  blue  sky  was  visible. 
Toward  the  east  the  glade  was  open,  and 
over  the  tops  of  the  forest  trees  (which  rose 
from  the  glen  beneath),  you  saw  the  river, 
the  distant  village  and  my  cottage  home 
shining  in  the  sun.  At  the  foot  of  the  oak 
which  formed  one  of  the  portals  of  the 
glade,  was  a  clear  cold  spring,  resting  in  a 
basin  of  rock,  and  framed  in  leaves  and 
flowers.  Altogether  the  dear  nook  of  the 
forest  was  worthy  of  June. 

For  a  moment  we  surveye^,  this  quiet 
scene — thought  of  the  many  happy  hours 
we  had  spent  there  in  the  previous  summer — 
and  then  turning  our  faces  to  the  east,  we 
stood,  hand  link'd  in  hand,  gazing  over 
forest  trees  and  river  upon  our  far-off  cottage 
home. 

"  Does  it  not  look  beautiful,  as  it  shines 
there  in  the  sun  ?" — I  said. 

Ernest  at  first  did  not  reply,  but  turned 
his  gaze  full  upon  me.  His  face  was  flushed 
and  there  was  a  strange  fire  in  his  eyes. 

"  To-morrow  you  leave  that  home  for- 
ever," he  exclaimed,  and  I  trembled,  I  knew 
not  why  at  the  sound  of  his  voice — "I  will 
never  see  you  again — I — "  he  dropped  my 


FEANK  VAN  IIUYDEN. 


33 


hand  and  turned  his  face  away.  I  saw  his  \ 
Jiead  fall  on  his  breast,  and  saw  that  breast  ■ 
heave  with  agitation  ;  urged  by  an  impulse  I  ' 
could  not  control,  I  glided  to  his  side,  put  j 
my  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  looked  up  into 
his  face. 

"  Ernest,"  I  whispered. 

He  turned  to  me,  for  a  moment  regarded 
me  with  a  look  of  intense  passion  and  then 
caught  me  to  his  heart.  His  arms  were 
around  me,  my  bosom  heaved  against  his 
breast,  his  kiss  was  on  my  lips — the  first 
kiss  since  childhood,  and  0,  how  different 
from  the  kiss  which  a  brother  presses  on  a 
sister's  lips ! 

"  Frank  I  love  you  !  Many  beautiful 
women  have  I  seen,  but  there  is  that  in  your 
gaze,  your  voice,  your  very  presence,  which 
is  Heaven  itself  to  me.  I  cannot  live  with- 
out you !  and  cannot,  cannot  think  of  losing 
you  without  madness.  Frank,  be  mine,  be 
my  wife  !  Be  mine,  and  the  home  which 
shines  yonder  in  the  sunlight  shall  be  ours  ! 
Frank,  for  God's  sake  say  you  love  me  !" 

He  sank  at  my  feet  and  clasped  my  knees 
with  his  trembling  hands.  0  the  joy,  the 
rapture  of  that  moment !  As  I  saw  his  face 
upraised  to  mine,  I  felt  that  I  loved  him 
with  all  my  soul,  that  I  could  die  for  him. 
Reaching  forth  my  hands  I  drew  him  gently 
to  his  feet,  and  fell  upon  his  breast  and 
called  him,  *'  Husband  !"  Would  I  had  died 
there,  on  his  bosom,  even  as  his  lips  met 
mine,  and  the  words  "  my  wife !"  trembled 
on  my  ear !  Would  I  had  at  that  moment 
fallen  dead  upon  his  breast ! 

Even  as  he  gathered  me  to  his  bosom  the 
air  all  at  once  grew  dark  ;  looking  overhead, 
we  saw  a  vast  cloud  rolling  up  the  heavens, 
dark  as  midnight,  yet  fringed  with  sunlight. 
On  and  on  it  rolled,  the  air  grew  darker, 
darker,  an  ominous  thunder-peal  broke  over 
our  heaas,  and  rolled  away  among  the 
gorges  of  the  hills.  Then  the  clouds  grew 
dark  as  night.  We  could  not  see  each  other's 
faces.  For  a  moment  our  distant  home 
shone  in  sunlight,  and  then  the  eastern  sky 
was  wrapt  in  clouds,  the  river  hidden  by 
driving  rain.  Trembling  with  fright  I  clung 
to  Ernest's  neck — he  bore  me  to  the  beech 
in  the  shadow  of  the  rock — another  thunder 
peal  and  a  flash  of  lightning  that  blinded  me. 
I  buried  my  face  in  his  bosom,  to  hide  my  | 


j  eyes  from  that  awful  glare.  The  tempest 
which  had  arisen  so  suddenly — even  as  we 
i  exchanged  our  first  vows — was  now  upon  us 
j  and  in  power.  The  trees  rocked  to  the  blast. 
The  distant  river  was  now  dark  and  now  one 
mass  of  sheeted  flame.  Peal  on  peal  the 
thunder  burst  over  our  heads,  and  as  one  peal 
died  away  in  distant  echoes,  another  more 
awful  seemed  hurled  upon  us,  from  the  very 
zenith.  And  amid  the  darkness  and  glare 
of  that  awful  storm,  I  clung  to  Ernest's  neck, 
my  bosom  beating  against  his  heart,  and  we 
repeated  our  vows,  and  talked  of  our  mar- 
riage, and  laid  plans  for  our  future. 

"  Frank,  my  heart  is  filled  with  an  awful 
foreboding,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  so 
changed  and  husky,  that  I  raised  my  head 
from  his  bosom,  and  even  in  the  darkness 
sought  to  gaze  upon  his  face.  A  lightning 
flash  came  and  was  gone,  but  by  that  momen- 
tary glare,  I  saw  his  countenance  agitated  in 
every  lineament. 

'*  What  mean  you  Ernest  ?" 
"  You  will  leave  our  home  to-morrow  and 
never  return,  never  !  The  sunshine  which 
was  upon  us,  as  we  exchanged  our  vows, 
was  in  a  moment  succeeded  by  the  blackness 
of  the  awful  tempest.  A  bad  omen,  Frank, 
a  dark  prophecy  of  our  future.  There  is 
only  one  way  to  turn  the  omen  of  evil,  into 
a  prophecy  of  good." 

He  drew  me  close  in  his  arms,  and  bent 
his  lips  to  my  ear — "  Be  mine,  and  now  !  be 
mine  !  Let  the  thunder-peal  be  our  mar- 
riage music,  this  forest  glade  our  maniago 
couch !" 

I  was  faint,  trembling,  but  I  sprang  from 
his  arms,  and  stood  erect  in  the  center  of  the 
glade.  My  dark  hair  fell  to  my  shoulders ; 
a  flash  of  lightning  lit  up  my  form,  clad  in 
snow-white.  As  wildly,  as  completely  as  I 
loved  him,  I  felt  my  eyes  flash  with  indig- 
nation. 

"  Words  like  these  to  a  girl  who  has  been 
reared  under  your  father's  roof  !" 

He  fell  at  my  feet,  besought  my  forgive- 
ness in  frantic  tones,  and  bathed  my  hands 
with  his  tears. 

I  fainted  in  his  arms. 

When  I  unclosed  my  eyes  again,  I  found 
myself  pure  and  virgin  in  the  arms  of  my 
plighted  husband.    The  clouds  were  parting, 
I  the  tempest  was  over,  and  the  sun  shone  out 


34 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


once  more.  Every  leaf  glittered  ^vilh  dia- 
mond drops.  The  last  blast  of  the  storm 
was  passing  over  the  distant  river,  and 
through  the  driving  clouds,  I  saw  the  sun- 
light shining  once  more  upon  our  cottage 
home. 

"  Forgive  me,  Frank,  forgive  me,"  he  cried, 
bending  passionately  over  me.  "  See  !  Your 
bad  omen  has  been  turned  into  good  !"  I 
cried  joyfully — "First  the  sunshine,  then  the 
storm,  but  now  the  sun  shines  clear  again  ;" 
and  I  pointed  to  the  diamond  dro]DS  glitter- 
ing in  the  sun. 

"  And  you  will  be  true  to  me,  Frank  ?" 

"Before  heaven  I  pi-omise  it,  in  life,  in 
death,  forever !" 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

HOME,  ADIEU  ! 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  afternoon 
that  we  took  cur  way  from  the  glade  through 
the  forest  to  the  river  shore.  We  crossed 
the  river,  and  passed  through  the  village. 
Together  we  ascended  the  road  that  led  to 
our  home,  and  at  the  wicket-gate,  found  a 
splendid  carriage  with  liveried  servants. 

The  good  clergyman  stood  at  the  gate, 
his  bared  forehead  and  white  hairs  bathed 
in  the  sunshine  ;  beside  him,  darkly  dressed, 
diamonds  upon  her  rich  attire,  my  mother. 
Old  Alice  stood  weeping  in  the  background. 

"Come,  Frank,  your  things  are  packed  and 
we  must  be  away,"  she  said,  abruptly,  as 
though  we  had  seen  each  other  only  the  day 
before  ;  "  I  wish  to  reach  our  home  in  New 
York,  before  night.  Go  in  the  house  dear," 
she  kissed  me,  "and  get  your  bonnet  and 
shawl.    Quick  my  love  !" 

Not  daring  to  trust  myself  to  speak — for . 
my  heai't  was  full  to  bursting — I  hurried 
through  the  gate,  and  along  the  garden  walk. 

"  How  beautiful  she  has  grown  I"  I  heard 
my  mother  exclaim.  One  look  into  the  old 
familiar  library  room,  one  moment  in  prayer 
by  the  bed,  in  which  I  had  slept  since  child- 
hood ! 

Placing  the  bonnet  on  my  curls,  and  drop- 
ping my  shawl  around  me,  I  hurried  from 
my  cottage  home.  There  were  a  few  mo- 
ments of  agony,  of  blessings,  of  partings  and 


tears.  Old  Alice  pressed  me  in  her  arms, 
and  bid  me  good-by.  The  good  old  cler- 
g\Tnan  laid  his  hands  upon  my  head,  and 
lifting  his  beaming  eyes  to  heaven,  invoked 
the  blessing  of  God  upon  my  head. 

"  I  give  your  child  to  you  again  !"  he  said, 
placing  me  in  my  mother's  arras — "  May  she 
be  a  blessing  to  you,  as  for  years  past  she  has 
been  the  blessing  and  peace  of  my  home  !" 

I  looked  around  for  Ernest ;  he  had  dis- 
appeared. 

I  entered  the  carriage,  and  sank  sobbing 
on  the  seat. 

"  But  I  am  not  taking  the  dear  child  away 
from  you  forever,"  said  my  mother,  bending 
from  the  carriage  window.  "  She  will  come 
and  see  you  often,  my  dear  Mr.  Walworth, 
and  you  will  come  and  see  her.  You  have 
the  number  of  our  town  residence  on  that 
card.    And  bring  your  son,  and  good  Alice 

with  you,  and,  " 

The  carriage  rolled  away. 
So  strange  and  unexpected  had  been  the 
circumstances  of  this  departure  from  my 
home,  that  I  could  scarce  believe  myself 
awake. 

I  did  not  raise  my  head,  until  we  had 
descended  the  hill,  passed  the  village  and 
gained  a  mile  or  more  on  our  way. 

We  were  ascending  a  long  slope,  which 
led  to  the  summit  of  a  hill,  from  which,  I 
knew,  I  might  take  a  last  view  of  my  child- 
hood's home. 

As  we  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
my  mother  was  looking  out  of  one  window 
toward  the  river,  and  I  looked  out  of  the 
other,  and  saw,  beyond  the  church  spire  and 
over  the  hills,  the  white  walls  of  my  home. 
"  Frank  !"  whispered  a  low  voice. 
Ernest  was  by  the  carriage.    There  was 
a  look  exchanged,  a  word,  and  he  was  gone. 
I  Gone  into  the  trees  by  the  roadside. 

He  left  a  flower  in  my  hand.  I  placed  it 
silently  in  my  bosom. 

"  Frank  !  How  beautiful  you  have  groMTi!" 
said  my  mother,  turning  from  the  window, 
and  fixing  upon  me  an  ardent  and  admiring 
gaze.  And  the  next  moment  she  was  wrapt 
in  thought  and  the  wrinkle  grew  deeper 
between  her  brows. 

y 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


35 


CHAPTER  IX. 

EKJEST  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  ADVENTURE. 

Before  I  resume  my  own  history,  I  must 
relate  an  instance  in  the  life  of  Ernest,  which 
had  an  important  bearing  on  his  fate.  (This 
incident  I  derive  from  M8S.  written  by  Ern- 
est himself.)  Soon  after  my  departure  from 
the  cottage  home,  he  came  to  New  York 
with  his  father,  and  they  directed  their  steps 
to  my  mother's  residence ;  as  indicated  on 
the  card  which  she  had  left  with  the  clergy- 
man ;  but  to  their  great  disappointment, 
they  discovered  that  my  mother  and  myself 
had  just  left  town  for  Niagara  Falls.  Six 
months  afterward,  Ernest  received  a  long 
letter  from  me,  concluding  with  these  words: 
"  To-morrow,  myself  and  frnther  take  passage 
for  Europe,  in  tlie  steamer.  We  will  he  absent 
for  a  year  or  more^ 

Determined  to  see  me  at  all  hazards,  he 
hurried  to  towm,  but,  too  late  !  The  steamer 
had  sailed  ;  her  flag  fluttered  in  the  air,  far 
down  the  bay,  as  standing  on  the  battery, 
Ernest  followed  her  course,  with  an  almost 
maddened  gaze.  Sorrowfully  he  returned  to 
the  country  and  informed  his  father  of  my 
sudden  departure  for  Europe. 

"  Can  she  have  forgetten  us  ?"  said  the  old 
man. 

"0,  father,  this  letter,"  replied  Ernest, 
showing  the  long  letter  which  I  had  written, 
"  this  will  show  you  that  she  has  not  forgotten 
us,  but  that  her  heart  beats  warmly  as  ever — 
that  she  is  the  same." 

And  he  read  the  letter  to  the  good  old 
man,  who  frequently  interrupted  him,  with 
"  God  bless  her  !    God  bkss  my  child  !" 

Soon  afterward  Ernest  came  to  New  York 
and  entered  his  name  in  the  office  of  an 
eminent  lawyer.  Determining  to  make  the 
law  his  profession,  he  hoped  to  complete  his 
studies  before  my  return  from  Paris.  He 
lived  in  New  York,  and  began  to  move  in 
the  circles  of  its  varied  society.  Among  the 
acquaintances  which  he  made  were  certain 
authors  and  artists  who,  once  a  month,  in 
company  with  a  few  select  friends,  gave  a 
social  supper  at  a  prominent  hotel. 

At  one  of  these  suppers  Ernest  was  a 
guest.  The  wine  passed  round,  wit  sparkled, 
and  the  enjoyment  of  the  festival  did  not 
begin  to  flag  even  when  midnight  drew  near. 


While  one  of  the  guests  was  singing,  a 
portly  gentleman  (once  well  known  as  a 
man  of  fashion,  the  very  Brummel  of  the 
side-walk)  began  to  converse  with  Ernest  in 
a  low  voice. 

He  described  a  lady — a  young  Avidow  with 
a  large  fortune — who  at  that  time  occupied 
a  large  portion  of  the  interest  of  certain 
circles  in  New  York.  She  was  exceedingly 
beautiful.  She  .was  witty,  accomplished, 
eloquent.  She  rivaled  in  fascination  Ninon 
and  Aspasia.  Nightly,  to  a  select  circle,  sho 
presided  over  festivals  whose  voluptuous- 
ness was  masked  in  flowers.  Her  previous 
history  was  unknown,  but  she  had  suddenly 
entered  the  orbit  of  New  York  social  life — 
of  a  peculiar  kind  of  social  life — as  a  star  of 
the  first  magnitude.  His  blood  heated  by 
wine,  his  imagination  warmed  by  the  descrip- 
tion of  his  fashionable  friend,  Ernest  mani- 
fested great  cmiosity  to  behold  this  singular 
lady. 

"You  shall  see  her  to-night — at  once," 
whispered  the  fashionable  gentleman.  "  She 
gives  a  select  party  to-night.  Let  us  glide 
ofl"  from  the  company  unobserved." 

They  passed  from  the  company,  took 
their  hats  and  cloaks — it  was  a  clear,  cold 
winter  night — and  entered  a  carriage. 

"I  will  introduce  you  by  the  name  of 
Johnson  —  Fred.  Johnson,  a  rich  southern 
planter,"  said  the  fashionable  gentleman. 
"  You  need  not  call  me  by  my  real  name. 
Call  me  Lawson." 

"But  why  this  concealment?"  asked 
Ernest,  as  the  carriage  rolled  on. 

"  0,  well,  never  mind,"  added  Lawson  (as 
he  desired  to  be  called),  and  then  continued: 
"  We'll  soon  be  near  her  mansion,  or  palace 
is  the  more  appropriate  word.  We  will  find 
some  of  the  first  gentlemen  and  finest  ladies 
of  New  York  under  her  roof.  I  tell  you, 
she'll  set  you  half  wild,  this  'Midnight 
Queen  !'  " 

"  Midnight  Queen  !"  echoed  Ernest. 

" That's  what  we  call  her.  A  'Midnight 
Queen'  indeed,  as  mysterious  and  voluptuous 
as  the  midnight  moon  shining  in  an  Italian 
sky." 

They  arrived  in  front  of  a  lofty  mansion, 
situated  in  one  of  the  most  aristocratic  parts 
of  New  York.  Its  exterior  w^as  dark  and 
silent  as  the  winter  midnight  itselt 


86 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEK. 


"A  light  hid  under  a  bushel — outside  dark 
enough,  but  inside  bright  as  a  new  dollar," 
whispered  Lawson,  ascending  the  marble 
steps  and  ringing  the  bell. 

The  door  was  opened  for  the  space  of  six 
inches  or  more, — 

"Who 's  there?"  said  a  voice  from  within. 

Lawson  bent  his  face  near  to  the  aperture 
and  whispered  a  few  words  inaudible  to 
Ernest.  The  door  was  opened  wide,  and 
carefully  closed  and  bolted  behind  them,  as 
soon  as  they  crossed  the  threshold.  They 
stood  in  a  vast  hall  lighted  by  a  hanging 
lamp. 

*'  Leave  hats  and  cloaks  here — and  come." 
Lawson  took  Ernest  by  the  hand  and  pushed 
open  a  door. 

They  entered  a  range  of  parlors,  brilliantly 
lighted  by  two  chandeliers,  as  brilliantly 
furnished  with  chairs  and  sofas  and  mirrors, 
and  adorned  with  glowing  pictures  and 
statues  of  white  marble.  A  piano  stood  in 
a  recess,  and  in  the  last  parlor  of  the  three 
a  supper-table  was  spread.  These  parlors 
were  crowded  by  some  thirty  guests,  men 
and  women,  some  of  whom,  seated  on  chairs 
and  sofas,  were  occupied  in  low  whispered 
cx)nversation,  while  others  took  wine  at  the 
supper-table,  and  others  again  were  grouped 
round  the  piano,  listening  to  the  voice  of  an 
exceedingly  beautiful  woman. 

Ernest  uttered  an  ejaculation.  Never  had 
he  seen  a  spectacle  like  this,  never  seen 
before,  grouped  under  one  roof,  so  many 
beautiful  women.  Beautiful  women,  richly 
dressed,  their  arms  and  shoulders  bare,  or 
vailed  only  by  mist-like  lace,  which  gave 
new  fascination  to  their  charms.  It  did  not 
by  any  means  decrease  the  surprise  of  Ernest 
when  he  discovered  that  some  of  the  ladies — 
those  whose  necks  and  shoulders  glowed 
most  white  and  beautiful  in  the  light — wore 
masks. 

"What  is  this  place?"  he  whispered  to 
Lawson,  as  apparently  unheeded  by  the 
guests,  they  passed  through  the  parlors. 

"  Hush !  not  so  loud,"  whispered  his  com- 
panion. "  Take  a  glass  of  wine,  my  boy, 
and  your  eyesight  will  be  clearer.  This 
place  is  a  quiet  little  retreat  in  which  certain 
gentlemen  and  ladies  of  New  York,  by  no 
means  lacking  in  wealth  or  position,  endea- 1 
vor  to  carry  the  Koran  into  practice,  and  | 


create,  even  in  our  cold  climate,  a  paradise 
worthy  of  Mahomet.  In  a  word,  it  is  the 
residence  of  a  widowed  lady,  who,  blest 
with  fortune  and  all  the  good  things  which 
fortune  brings,  delights  in  surrounding  her- 
self with  beautiful  women  and  intellectual 
men.  How  do  you  like  that  wine?  There 
are  at  least  a  hundred  gentlemen  in  New 
York,  who  would  give  a  cool  five  hundred 
to  stand  where  you  stand  now,  or  even 
cross  the  threshold  of  this  mansion.  I 'm 
an  old  stager,  and  have  brought  you  here  in 
order  to  enjoy  the  effect  which  a  scene  like 
this  produces  on  one  so  inexperienced  as 
you.  But  you  must  remember  one  law 
which  governs  this  place  and  all  who 
enter  it — " 

"  That  condition?" 

"All  that  is  said  or  done  here  remains  a 
secret  forever  within  the  compass  of  these 
walls ;  and  you  must  never  recognize,  in 
any  other  place,  any  person  whom  you  have 
first  encountered  here.  This  is  a  matter  of 
honor,  Walworth." 

"And  where  is  the  *  Midnight  Queen?'  " 

"  She  is  not  with  her  guests,  I  see — but  I 
will  give  you  an  answ^er  in  a  moment,"  and 
Lawson  left  the  room.  ^ 

Drinking  glass  after  glass  of  champagne, 
Ernest  stood  by  the  supper-table,  a  silent 
spectator  of  that  scene,  whose  voluptuous 
enchantment  gradually  inflamed  his  imagi- 
nation and  fired  his  blood.  He  seemed  to 
have  been  suddenly  transported  from  dull 
matter-of-fact,  every-day  life,  to  a  scene  in 
some  far  oriental  city,  in  the  days  of  Haroun 
Alraschid.  And  he  surrendered  himself  to 
the  enchantment  of  the  place,  like  one  for 
the  first  time  enjoying  the  intoxication  of 
opium. 

Lawson  returned,  and  came  quietly  to  his 
side — 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  the  *  Midnight 
Queen,' — alone — in  her  parlor  ?"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"  Of  all  things  in  the  world.  You  have 
roused  my  curiosity.  I  am  like  a  man  in  a 
delicious  dream." 

"Understand  me  —  she  is  chary  of  her 
smiles  to  an  old  stager  like  me — but  I  think, 
that  there  is  something  in  you  that  will 
interest  her.  She  awaits  you  in  her  apart- 
ments.   You  are  a  young  English  lord  on 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


37 


your  travels  (better  than  a  planter),  Lord 
Stanley  Fitz  Herbert.  With  that  black 
dress  and  somber  face  of  yours  you  will  take 
her  wonderfully." 

"  But  can  I  indeed  see  her?" 

"Leave  the  room — ascend  the  stairs — at 
the  head  of  the  stairs  a  light  shines  from  a 
door  which  is  slightly  open  ;  take  a  bold 
heart  and  enter." 

"  Inflamed  by  curiosity,  by  the  wine  which 
he  had  drunk,  and  the  scene  around  him, 
Ernest  did  not  take  time  for  a  second 
thought,  but  left  the  room,  ascended  the 
stairs,  and  stood  before  the  door  from  whose 
aperture  a  belt  of  light  streamed  out  upon 
the  dark  passage.  There,  for  a  moment,  he 
hesitated,  but  that  was  all.  He  opened  the 
door  and  entered.  He  stood  spell-bound  by 
the  scene.  If  the  parlors  below  were  mag- 
nificently furnished,  this  apartment  was 
worthy  of  an  empress.  There  were  lofty 
walls  hung  with  silk  hangings  and  adorned 
with  pictures  ;  a  couch  with  a  silken  canopy; 
mirrors  that  glittered  gently  in  the  rich 
voluptuous  light ;  in  a  word,  every  detail  of 
luxury  and  extravagance. 

In  the  center  of  all  stood  the  "  Midnight 
Queen" — iirtl^s  hand  she  held  an  open  let- 
ter. Her  back  was  toward  Ernest  as  he 
lingered  near  the  threshold.  Her  neck  and 
shoulders  were  bare,  and  he  could  remark  at 
a  glance  their  snowy  whiteness  and  volup- 
tuous outline,  although  her  dark  hair  was 
gathered  in  glossy  masses  upon  the  shoul- 
ders, half  hiding  them  from  view.  A  dark 
dress,  rich  in  its  very  simplicity,  left  her 
arms  bare  and  did  justice  to  the  rounded 
proportions  of  her  form. 

She  turned  and  confronted  Ernest,  even  as 
he,  the  blood  bounding  in  his  veins,  advanced 
a  single  step. 

At  once  they  spoke  : 

"  My  Lord  Stanley,  I  believe, — " 

"The  'Midnight  Queen,'—" 

The  words  died  on  their  lips.  They  stood 
as  if  suddenly  frozen  to  the  floor.  The 
beautiful  face  of  the  "Midnight  Queen"  was 
pale  as  death,  and  as  for  Ernest,  the  glow  of 
the  wine  had  left  his  cheek  —  his  face  was 
livid  and  distorted. 

Moments  passed  and  neither  had  power 
to  speak. 

"  0,  my  God,  it  is  Frank  !"  the  words  at 


last  burst  from  the  lips  of  Ernest,  and  he  fell 
like  a  dead  man  at  her  feet. 

Yes,  the  "Midnight  Queen"  was  Frances 
Van  Huyden,  his  betrothed  wife — six  months 
ago  resting  on  his  bosom  and  whispering 
"husband"  in  his  ear, — and  now — the  wife 
of  another  ?  A  widow  ?  Or  one  utterly 
fallen  from  all  virtue  and  all  hope? 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  PALACE-HOME. 

Having  thus  given  the  incident  from  the 
life  of  Ernest,  as  far  as  possible,  in  the  very 
words  of  his  MSS.,  let  me  continue  my  his- 
tory from  the  hour  when,  in  company  with 
my  mother,  I  left  the  cottage  home  of  the 
good  clergyman.  After  the  incident  just 
related,  nothing  in  my  life  can  appear 
strange. 

I  was  riding  in  the  carriage  with  my 
mother  toward  New  York. 

"  You  are,  indeed,  very  beautiful,  Frank," 
said  she,  once  more  regarding  me  attentively. 
"  Your  form  is  that  of  a  mature  woman,  and 
your  carriage  (I  remarked  it  as  you  passed 
up  the  garden-walk)  excellent.  But  this 
country  dress  will  not  do.  We  will  do  bet- 
ter than  all  that  when  we  get  to  town." 

It  was  night  w^hen  the  carriage  left  the 
avenue  and  rolled  into  Broadway.  The 
noise,  the  glare,  the  people  hurrying  by,  all 
frightened  me.  At  the  same  time  Broad- 
way brought  back  a  dim  memory  of  my 
early  childhood  in  Paris.  Turning  from 
Broadway,  the  carnage  at  length  stopped 
before  a  lofty  mansion,  the  windows  of  which 
were  closed  from  the  sidewalk  to  the  roof. 

"  This  is  your  home,"  said  my  mother,  as 
she  led  me  from  the  carriage  up  the  marble 
steps  into  the  hall  where,  in  the  light  of  a 
globular  lamp,  a  group  of  servants  in  livery 
awaited  us. 

"Jenkins," — my  mother  spoke  to  an 
elderly  servant  in  dark  livery  turned  up  with 
red — "  let  dinner  be  served  in  half  an  hour." 

Then  turning  to  another  servant,  not  quite 
so  old,  but  wearing  the  same  livery,  she  said  : 

"Jones,  Miss  Van  Huyden  wishes  to  take 
a  look  at  her  house  before  we  go  to  dinner. 
Take  the  light  and  go  before  us." 

The  servant,  holding  a  wax  candle  placed 
in  a  huge  silver  candlestick,  went  before  us 


88 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


and  showed  us  the  house  from  the  first  to 
the  fourth  floor.  Never  before  had  I  beheld 
such  magnificence  even  in  my  dreams.  I 
could  not  restrain  ejaculations  of  pleasure 
and  surprise  at  every  step,  —  my  mother 
keenly  regarding  me,  sometimes  vnth  a  faint 
smile  and  sometimes  with  the  wrinkle  grow- 
ing deeper  between  her  brows.  A  range  of 
jjarlors  on  the  lower  floor  were  furnished 
with  everything  that  the  most  extravagant 
fancy  could  desire,  or  exhaustless  wealth 
procure.  Carpets  that  gave  no  echo  to  the 
step ;  sofas  and  chairs  cushioned  with  velvet 
and  (so  it  seemed  to  me)  framed  in  gold ; 
mirrors  extending  from  the  ceiling  to  the 
floor ;  pictures,  statues,  and  tables  with  tops 
either  of  marble  or  ebony;  the  walls  lofty, 
and  the  ceiling  glowing  with  a  painting 
which  represented  Aurora  and  the  Hours 
winging  their  way  through  a  summer  sky. 

"Whose  picture,  mother  ?"  I  asked,  point- 
ing to  a  picture  of  a  singularly  handsome 
man,  with  dark  hair  and  beard,  and  eyes  re- 
markable at  once  for  their  brightness  and  ex- 
pression. 

"  Your  father,  dear,"  answered  my  mother, 
and  again  the  mark  between  her  brows  be- 
came ominously  perceptible.  "  There  is  your 
piano,  Frank, — you'll  find  it  something  bet- 
ter than  the  one  which  you  had  at  the  good 
parson's." 

The  servant  led  the  way,  up  the  wide  stair- 
way, thickly  carpeted,  to  the  upper  rooms. 
Here  the  magnificence  of  the  first  floor  was 
repeated  on  a  grander,  a  more  luxurious  scale. 
We  passed  through  room  after  room,  my  eyes 
dazzled  by  new  signs  of  wealth  and  luxury 
at  every  step.  At  last  we  paused  on  the 
thick  carpet  of  a  spacious  bed-chamber,  whose 
appointments  combined  the  richest  elegance 
with  the  nicest  taste.  It  was  hung  with 
curtains  of  light  azure.  An  exquisite  and 
touching  picture  of  the  Virgin  Mary  con- 
fronted the  toilette  table  and  mirror.  A  bed 
with  coverlet  white  as  snow,  satin  covered 
pillows  and  canopy  of  lace,  stood  in  one  cor- 
ner ;  and  wherever  I  turned  there  were  signs 
of  neatness,  taste  and  elegance.  I  could  not 
too  much  admire  the  apartment. 

"It  is  your  bedroom,  my  dear,"  said  my 
mother,  silently  enjoying  my  delight. 

Why,"  said  I  laughingly, — "  it  is  grand 
enough  for  a  queen."  i 


I  **  And  are  you  not  a  queen,"  answered  my 
mother,  **  and  a  very  beautiful  one."  Turn- 

I  ing  to  the  servant,  who  stood  staring  at  mo 
with  eyes  big  as  saucers,  she  said — 

"  Tell  Mrs.  J enkins,  the  housekeeper,  to 
come  here  :" — Jones  left  the  chamber,  and 
presently  returned  with  Mrs.  Jenkins,  a  port- 
ly lady,  with  a  round,  good-humored  face. 

"Frank,  this  is  ijour  housekeeper;" — Mrs. 
Jenkins  simpered  and  courtsied,  shaking  at 
the  same  time  the  bundle  of  keys  at  her 
waist.  "  Mrs.  Jenkins,  this  is  your  young 
mistress,  Miss  Van  Huyden.  Give  me  the 
keys." 

She  took  the  keys  from  the  housekeeper, 
and  placed  them  in  my  hands  : 

"  My  dear,  this  house  and  all  that  it  con- 
tains are  yours,  I  surrender  it  to  your  charge." 

Scarcely  knowing  what  to  do  with  myself 
I  took  the  keys— which  were  heavy  enough — 
and  handing  them  back  to  Mrs.  Jenkins, 
"  hoped  that  she  would  continue  to  superin- 
tend the  afifairs  of  my  mansion,  as  hereto- 
fore." All  of  which  pleased  my  mother  and 
made  her  smile. 

"  We  will  go  to  dinner  without  dressing/* 
and  my  mother  led  the  way  down  stairs  to 
the  dining-room.  It  was  a  lar^l^  apartment, 
in  the  center  of  which  stood  a  luxuriously 
furnished  table,  glittering  with  gold  plate. 
Servants  in  livery  stood  like  statues  behind 
my  chair  and  my  mother's.  How  difi"erent 
from  the  plain  fare  and  simple  style  of  the 
good  clergyman's  home  !  Nay  how  widely 
contrasted  with  the  rude  dinner  in  a  log 
cabin  to  which  Ernest  and  myself  sat  down 
a  few  hours  ago  ! 

In  vain  I  tried  to  partake  of  the  rich  dishes 
set  out  before  me  ;  I  was  too  much  excited  to 
eat.  Dinner  over,  coffee  was  served,  and  the 
servants  retired.  Mother  and  I  were  left 
alone. 

"  Frank,  do  you  blame  me,"  she  said,  look- 
ing at  me  carefully — "  for  having  you  reared 
so  quietly,  far  away  in  the  country,  in  order 
that  at  the  proper  age,  strong  in  health  and 
rich  in  accomplishments  and  beauty,  you 
might  be  prepared  to  enter  upon  the  enjoy- 
ments and  duties  suitable  to  your  station  ?" 

How  could  I  blame  her  ? 

I  spoke  gratefully  again  and  again  of  the 
wealth  and  comfort  which  sun-ounded  me,  and 
then  forgetting  it  all — broke  forth  into  im- 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


39 


passioned  praise  of  my  cottage  home,  of  the 
good  clergyman,  of  old  Alice  and — Ernest. 

Something  which  came  over  my  mother's 
face  at  the  mention  of  Ernest's  name,  warned 
me  that  it  was  not  yet  time  to  speak  of  my 
engagement  to  him. 

That  night  I  bathed  my  limbs  in  a  per- 
fumed bath,  laid  my  head  on  a  silken  pillow, 
and  slept  beneath  a  canopy  of  lace,  as  soft 
and  light  and  transparent  as  the  summer 
mist  through  which  you  can  see  the  blue  sky 
and  the  distant  mountain.  And  resting  on 
the  silken  pilloAV  I  dreamed — not  of  the 
splendor  with  which  I  was  surrounded,  nor 
of  the  golden  prospects  of  my  future, — but, 
of  my  childhood's  home,  and  the  quiet  scenes 
of  other  days.  In  my  sleep  my  heart  turned 
back  to  them.  Once  more  I  heard  the  voice 
of  the  good  old  man.  I  heard  the  shrill 
tones  of  Alice,  as  the  sun  shone  on  my  frosted 
window-pane,  on  a  clear,  cold  winter  morn. 
Then  the  voice  of  Ernest,  calling  me  "Wife!" 
and  pressing  me  to  his  bosom  in  the  forest 
nook.  I  awoke  with  his  name  on  my  lips, 
and,  

My  mother  stood  by  the  bedside  gazing  upon 
me  attentively,  a  smile  on  her  lips,  but  the 
wrinkle  darkly  defined  between  her  brows. 
The  sun  shone  brightly  through  the  window 
curtains. 

"  Get  up  my  dear,"  she  kissed  me, — "You 
have  a  busy  day  before  you." 

And  it  was  a  busy  day  !  I  w^as  handed 
over  to  the  milliners  and  dressmakers,  and 
whirled  in  my  carriage  from  one  jeweler's 
shop  to  another.  It  was  not  until  the  third 
day  that  my  dresses  w^ere  completed — ac- 
cording to  my  mother's  taste, — and  not  until 
the  fourth,  that  the  jewels  which  were  to 
adorn  my  forehead,  my  neck,  my  arms  and 
bosom,  had  been  properly  selected.  Ward- 
robe and  diamonds  worthy  of  a  queen — and 
was  I  happy  ?  No  !  I  began  to  grow  home- 
sick, for  my  dear  quiet  home,  on  the  hill-side 
above  the  Neprehaun. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

"she'll  do." 

It  was  on  the  fourth  day,  in  the  afternoon, 
that  my  mother  desired  my  presence  in  the 
parlor,  where  she  wished  to  present  me  to  a 


much  esteemed  friend,  Mr.  Wareham — Mr. 
Wallace  Wareham. 

"  An  excellent  man,"  whispered  my  mo- 
ther as  we  went  down  stairs  together,  "  and 
immensely  rich." 

I  was  richly  dressed  in  black  ;  my  neck, 
my  arms  and  shoulders  bare.  My  dark  hair, 
gathered  plainly  aside  from  my  face,  was 
adorned  by  a  single  snow-white  flower.  As 
I  passed  by  the  mirror  in  the  parlor,  I  could 
not  help  feeling  a  throb  of  womanly  pride, 
or — vanity;  and  my  mother  whispered, 
"  Frank,  you  excel  yourself  to-day." 

Mr.  Wareham  sat  on  the  sofa,  in  the  front 
parlor,  in  the  mild  light  of  the  curtained 
window.  He  was  an  elderly  gentleman, 
somewhat  bald,  and  slightly  inclined  to  cor- 
pulence. He  was  sleekly  clad  in  black,  and 
there  Avas  a  gold  chain  across  his  satin  vest, 
and  a  brilliant  diamond  upon  his  ruffled 
bosom.  He  sat  in  an  easy,  composed  attitude, 
resting  both  hands  on  his  gold-headed  cane. 
At  first  sight  he  impressed  me,  as  an  elderly 
gentleman,  exceedingly  nice  in  his  peisonal 
appearance  ;  and  that  was  all.  But  there 
was  something  peculiar  and  remarkable  about 
his  face  and  look,  Avhich  did  not  appear  at 
first  sight. 

I  was  presented  to  him :  he  rose  and 
bowed  ;  and  took  me  kindly  by  the  hand. 

Then  conversing  in  a  calm,  even  tone, 
which  soon  set  me  at  ease,  he  led  me  to  talk 
of  my  childhood — of  my  home  on  the  Ne- 
prehaun— of  the  life  which  I  had  passed  with 
the  good  clergyman.  I  soon  forgot  myself  in 
my  subject,  and  grew  impassioned,  perchance 
eloquent.  I  felt  my  cheeks  glow  and  my 
eyes  sparkle.  But  all  at  once  I  was  brought 
to  a  dead  pause,  by  remarking  the  singular 
expression  of  Mr.  Wareham's  face. 

I  stopped  abruptly — blushed  —  and  at  a 
glance  surveyed  him  closely. 

His  forehead  w'as  high  and  bold,  and  en- 
circled by  slight  curls  of  black  hair,  streaked 
with  gray, — its  expression  eminently  intellec- 
tual. But  the  lower  part  of  his  face  was 
heavy,  almost  animal.  There  was  a  deep 
wrinkle  on  either  side  of  his  mouth,  and  as 
for  the  mouth  itself,  its  upper  lip  was  thin, 
almost  imperceptible,  while  the  lower  one 
was  large,  projecting  and  of  deep  red,  ap- 
proaching purple,  thus  presenting  a  singu- 
lar contrast  to  the  corpse-like  pallor  of  his 


40 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


clieeks.  His  eyes,  half  hidden  under  the 
bulging  lids,  when  I  began  my  description 
of  my  childhood's  home,  all  at  once  expand- 
ed, and  I  saw  their  real  expression  and  color. 
They  were  large,  the  eyeballs  exceedingly 
white,  and  the  pupils  clear  gray,  and  their 
expression  reminded  you  of  nothing  that 
you  had  ever  seen  or  heard  of,  but  simply 
made  you  afraid.  And  as  the  eyes  expand- 
ed, a  slight  smile  would  agitate  his  upper  lip, 
while  the  lower  one  protruded,  disclosing  a 
yet  of  artificial  teeth,  white  as  milk.  It  was 
the  sudden  expansion  of  the  eyes,  the  smile 
on  the  upper  lip  and  the  protrusion  of  the 
lower  one,  that  made  up  the  peculiar  expres- 
sion of  Mr.  "Wareham's  face, — an  expression 
which  made  you  feel  as  though  you  had  just 
awoke  from  a  grotesque  yet  frightful  dream. 

"Why  do  you  pause,  daughter?"  said  my 
mother,  observing  my  confusion. 

"  Proceed  my  child,"  said  Mr.  Wareham, 
devouring  me  from  head  to  foot  with  his 
great  eyes,  at  the  same  time  rubbing  his 
lower  lip  against  the  upper,  as  though  he  was 
tasting  something  good  to  eat.  "I  enjoy 
these  delightful  reminiscences  of  childhood. 
I  dote  on  such  things." 

But  I  could  not  proceed—I  blushed  again — 
and  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes. 

"  You  have  been  fatigued  by  the  bustle  of 
the  last  three  days,"  said  my  mother  kindly  : 
"Mr.  Wareham  will  excuse  you,"  and  she 
made  me  a  sign  to  leave  the  room. 

Never  was  a  sign  more  willingly  obeyed. 
I  hurried  from  the  room,  and  as  I  closed  the 
door,  I  heard  Mr.  Wareham  say  in  a  low 
voice — 

"  She'll  do.    When  will  you  tell  her  ?" 

That  night,  as  I  sat  on  the  edge  of  my 
bed,  clad  in  my  night-dress — my  dark  hair 
half  gathered  in  a  lace  cap  and  half  falling 
on  my  shoulders — my  mother  came  suddenly 
into  the  room,  and  placing  her  candle  on  a 
table,  took  her  seat  by  me  on  the  bed.  She 
was,  as  I  have  told  you,  an  exceedingly 
beautiful  woman,  in  spite  of  the  threads  of 
silver  in  her  hair  and  the  ominous  wrinkle 
between  her  brows.  But  as  she  sat  by  me, 
and  put  her  arm  about  my  neck,  toying  with 
my  hair,  her  look  was  infinitely  affectionate. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Ware- 
ham, dear?"  she  asked  me — and  I  felt  that 
her  gaze  was  fixed  keenly  on  my  face. 

I 


I  described  my  impressions  frankly  and 
with  what  language  I  could  command,  con- 
cluding with  the  words,  "  In  short,  I  do  not 
like  him.    He  makes  me  feel  afraid." 

"  0,  you  '11  soon  get  over  that,"  answered 
my  mother.  "  Now  he  takes  a  great  interest 
in  you.  Let  me  tell  you  something  about 
him.  He  is  a  foreign  gentleman,  immensely 
rich  ;  M'orth  hundreds  of  thousands,  perhaps 
a  million.  He  has  estates  in  this  country, 
in  England  and  France.  He  has  traveled 
over  half  the  globe  ;  on  further  acquaintance 
you  will  be  charmed  by  his  powers  of  obser- 
vation, his  fund  of.  anecdote,  his  easy  flow 
of  conversational  eloquence.  And  then  he 
has  a  good  heart,  Frank  !  I  could  keep  you 
up  all  night  in  repeating  but  a  small  portion 
of  his  innumerable  acts  of  benevolence.  I 
met  him  first  in  Paris,  years  ago,  just  aftet 
he  had  unhappily  married.  And  since  I  first 
met  him  he  has  been  my  fast  friend.  He  is 
a  good,  a  noble  man,  Frank  ;  you  will,  you 
must  like  him." 

"  But,  then,  his  eyes,  ■  mother  !  and  that 
lip !"  and  I  cast  my  eyes  meekly  to  the 
floor. 

"  Pshaw !"  returned  my  mother,  with  a 
start,  "  don't  allow  yourself  to  make  fun  of 
a  dear  personal  friend  of  mine."  She  kissed 
me  on  the  forehead, — "you  ivill  like  him, 
dear,"  and  bade  me  good-night. 

And  on  my  silken  pillow  I  slept  and 
dreamed — of  home, — of  the  good  old  man,— 
of  Ernest  and  the  forest  nook, — ^but  all  my 
dreams  were  haunted  by  a  vision  of  two 
great  eyes  and  a  huge  red  lip — everywhere, 
everywhere  they  haunted  me,  the  lip  now 
projecting  over  the  clergyman's  head  and 
the  eyes  looking  over  Ernest's  shoulder.  I 
awoke  with  a  start  and  a  laugh. 

"  You  are  in  good  spirits,  my  child,"  said 
my  mother,  who  stood  by  the  bed. 

"I  had  a  frightful  dream  but  it  ended 
fumiily.  All  night  long  I've  seen  nothing 
but  Mr.  Wareham's  eyes  and  lip,  but  the  last 
I  saw  of  them  they  were  flying  like  butter- 
flies a  few  feet  above  ground,  eyes  first  and 
lips  next,  and  old  Alice  chasing  them  with 
her  broom." 

"  Never  mind;  you  will  like  him,"  rejoined 
my  mother. 

I  certainly  had  every  chance  to  like  him. 
For  three  days  he  was  a  constant  visitor  at 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


41 


our  house.  He  accompanied  mother  and 
myself  on  a  drive  along  Broadway  and  out 
on  the  avenue.  I  enjoyed  the  excitement 
of  Broadway  and  the  fresh  air  of  the  coun- 
try, but — Mr.  Wareham  was  by  my  side,  talk- 
ing pleasantly,  even  eloquently,  and  looking 
all  the  while  as  if  he  would  like  to  eat  me. 
We  went  to  the  opera,  and  for  the  first  time, 
the  fairy  world  of  the  stage  was  disclosed  to 
me.  I  was  enchanted, — the  lights,  the  cos- 
tumes, the  music,  the  circle  of  youth  and 
beauty,  all  wrapt  me  in  a  delicious  dream, 
but — elope  by  my  side  was  Mr.  Wareham, 
his  eyes  expanded  and  his  lip  protruding.  I 
thought  of  the  Arabian  Nights  and  was  re- 
minded of  a  well-dressed  Ghoul.  I  began 
to  hate  the  man.  On  the  fourth  day  he 
brought  me  a  handsome  bracelet,  glittering 
with  diamonds,  which  my  mother  bade  me 
accept,  and  on  the  fifth  day  I  hated  him  with 
all  my  soul.  There  was  an  influence  about 
him  which  repelled  me  and  made  me  afraid. 

It  was  the  sixth  night  in  my  new  home, 
and  in  my  night-dress,  I  was  seated  on  the 
edge  of  my  bed,  the  candle  near,  and  my 
mother  by  my  side.  She  had  entered  the 
room  with  a  serious  and  even  troubled  face. 
The  wrinkle  was  marked  deep  betw^een  her 
brows.  Fixing  my  lace  cap  on  my  head 
and  smoothing  my  curls  w4th  a  gentle  pres- 
sure of  her  hand,  she  looked  at  me  long  and 
anxiously  but  in  silence. 

"  0,  mother !"  I  said,  "  when  will  we  visit 
'father,' — and  good  old  Alice,  and — Ernest? 
I  am  so  anxious  to  see  my  home  again !" 

"You  must  forget  that  home,"  said  my 
mother  gravely.  *'  You  will  shortly  be  sur- 
rounded by  new  ties  and  new  duties.  Nay, 
do  not  start  and  look  at  me  with  so  much 
wonder.  I  see  that  I  must  be  plain  with 
you.  Listen  to  me,  Frank.  Who  owns  this 
house?" 

"It  is  yours  1" 

"The  pictures,  the  gold  jolatc,  the  furui- 
lure  worthy  of  such  a  palace?" 

"Yours, — all  yours,  mother." 

"  Who  purchased  the  dresses  and  the  dia- 
monds which  you  w^ear, — dresses  and  dia- 
monds worthy  of  a  queen?" 

"You  did,  mother  —  of  course,"  I  hesi- 
tated. 

"  Wrong,  Frank,  all  wTong  !"  and  her  eyes 
shone  vividly,  and  the  mark  between  her 


{  brows  grew  blacker.  "  The  house  which 
sheltei-3  you,  the  furniture  which  meets  your 
gaze,  the  dresses  which  clothe  you,  and  the 
diamonds  which  adorn  your  person,  are  the 
property  of — Mr.  Wareham." 

It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  floor  had  opened 
at  my  feet. 

"0,  mother!  you  are  jesting,"  I  faltered. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

A  REVELATION. 

"I  AM  a  beggar,  child,  and  you  are  a  beg- 
gar's daughter.  It  is  to  Mr.  Wareham  that 
we  are  indebted  for  all  that  we  enjoy.  For 
years  he  has  paid  the  expenses  of  your  edu- 
cation ;  and  now  that  you  have  grown  to 
young  womanhood  he  shekel's  you  in  a 
palace,  surrounds  you  with  splendor  that  a 
queen  might  envy,  and  not  satisfied  with 
this,—" 

She  paused  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  my 
face,  I  know  that  I  was  frightfully  pale. 

"  Offers  you  his  hand  in  marriage." 

For  a  moment  the  light,  the  mirrors,  the 
roof  itself  swam  round  me,  and  I  sank  half- 
fainting  in  my  mother's  arms. 

"0!  this  is  but  a  jest,  a  cruel  jest  to 
frighten  me.    Say,  mother,  it  is  a  jest !" 

"It  is  not  a  jest;  it  is  sober,  serious  ear- 
nest ;"  and  she  raised  me  sternly  from  her 
arms.  "He  has  offered  his  hand,  and  you 
will  marry  him." 

I  flung  myself  on  my  knees  at  the  bedside, 
clasped  her  hands,  and  as  my  night-dress 
fell  back  from  my  shoulders  and  bosom,  I 
told  her,  with  sobs  and  tears,  of  my  love  for 
Ernest,  and  my  engagement  with  him. 

"  Pshaw^ !  A  poor  clergyman's  son,"  she 
said  bitterly. 

"  0,  let  us  leave  this  place,  mother !"  I 
cried,  still  pressing  her  hands  to  my  bosomu 
"  You  say  that  we  are  poor.  Be  it  so.  We 
will  find  a  home  together  in  the  home  of  my 
childhood.  Or  if  that  fails  us,  I  will  work 
for  you.  I  will  toil  from  sun  to  sun  and  all 
night  long, — beg, — do  anything  rather  than 
marry  this  man.  For,  mother,  I  cannot 
help  it, — but  I  do  hate  him  with  all  my  soul." 

"  Pretty  talk,  very  pretty !"  and  she 
loosened  her  hands  from  my  grasp ;  "  but 
did  you  ever  try  poverty,  my  child?  Did 
you  ever  know  what  the  word  meant,— 


42 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


POVERTY?  Did  you  ever  work  sixteen  hours 
a  day,  at  your  needle,  for  as  many  pennies, 
walk  the  streets  at  dead  of  winter  in  half- 
naked  feet,  and  go  for  two  long  days  and 
nights  without  a  morsel  of  food?  Did  you 
ever  try  it,  my  child?  That 's  the  life  which 
poor  widows  and  their  pretty  daughters  live 
in  New  York,  my  dear." 

"But  Ernest  loves  me, — he  will  make  his 
way  in  life, — we  will  be  married, — you  will 
share  our  home,  dear  mother." 

These  words  rendered  her  perfectly  furi- 
ous. She  started  up  and  uttered  a  frightful 
oath — it  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard 
an  oath  from  a  woman's  lips.  Her  counte- 
nance for  a  moment  was  fiendish.  She 
assailed  me  with  a  torrent  of  reproaches, 
concluding  thus :  I 

"And  this  is  your  gratitude  for  the  care, ! 
the  anxiety,  the  very  agony  of  a  mother's  ; 
anxiety,  which  I  have  endured  on  j^our  i 
account  for  years !  In  return  for  all  you ! 
condemn  me  to — poverty  !  But  it  shall  not  j 
be.  One  of  us  must  bend,  and  that  one  will 
not  be  me.  I  swear,  girl," — her  brows  were  i 
knit,  she  was  lividly  pale,  and  she  raised  her  , 
right  hand  to  heaven,  — "  that  you  shall 
many  this  man." 

'And  I  swear," — I  bounded  to  my  feet, 
my  bosom  bare,  and  the  blood  boiling  in  my  ' 
veins  —  perchance  it  was  the  same  blood 
which  gave  my  mother  her  fiery  temper, —  ; 
"  I  swear  that  I  will  not  marry  him  as  long  : 
as  there  is  life  in  me.  Do  you  hear  me,  | 
mother  ?  Before  I  marry  that  miserable  : 
wretch,  whose  very  presence  fills  me  with  I 
loathing,  I  will  fall  a  corpse  at  your  feet." 

My  words,  my  attitude  took  her  by  sur- 
prise. She  surveyed  me  silently  but  was 
too  much  enraged  to  speak. 

"  0,  that  my  father  was  living !"  I  cried, 
the  fit  of  passion  succeeded  by  a  burst  of 
tears ;  "  he  would  save  me  from  this  hideous 
marriage." 

My  mother  quietly  drew  a  letter  from  her 
bosom  and  placed  it  open  in  my  hand. 

"  Your  father  is  living.  That  letter  is  the 
last  one  I  have  received  from  him.  Read  it, 
my  angel." 

I  took  it, — it  was  very  brief, — I  read  it  at 
a  glance.    It  was  addressed  to  my  mother 


and  bore  a  recent  date, 
tentfi : 


These  were  its  con- 


"  Dear  Frank  : 
"My  sentence  expires  in  two  weeks  from 
to-day.  Send  me  some  decent  clothes,  and 
let  me  know  where  I  will  meet  you.  Glad 
to  hear  that  your  plans  as  regards  our  daugh- 
ter approach  a  *  glorious'  completion. 
"  Yours  as  ever, 

"  Charles." 
It  was  a  letter  from  a  convict  in  Auburn 
prison, — and  that  convict  was  my  father  ! 

"  It  is  false  ;  my  father  died  years  ago,"  I 
cried  in  very  agon3\  "  This  is  not  from  my 
father."  ~ 

"It  is  from  your  father,"  answered  my 
mother ;  "  and  unless  I  send  him  the  clothes 
which  he  asks  for,  you  will  see  him,  in  less 
than  three  -weeks,  in  his  convict  rags." 

"  0,  mother !  are  you  human?  A  mother 
to  taunt  her  own  daughter  with  her  father's 
shame, — " 

My  temples  throbbed  madly  and  my  sight 
failed.  All  that  mortal  can  endure  and  be 
conscious,  I  had  endured.  I  sank  on  the 
floor,  and  had  not  my  mother  caught  me  in 
her  arms,  I  would  have  wounded  my  fore- 
head against  the  marble  table. 

All  night  long,  half  waking,  half  delirious, 
I  tossed  on  my  silken  couch  mingling  the 
name  of  my  convict  father  and  of  Ernest  in 
my  broken  exclamations.  Once  I  was  con- 
scious for  a  moment  and  looked  around  with 
clear  eyes.  My  mother  was  watching  ovei 
me.  Her  face  was  bathed  in  tears.  She 
was  human  after  all.  That  moment  past, 
the  delirium  returned  and  I  struggled  with 
horrible  dreams  until  morning. 

CHAPTER  XIIL 

MORPHINE. 

"When  I  awoke  next  morning,  my  mind 
was  clear  again,  and  even  as  I  unclosed  my 
eyes  and  saw  the  sunlight  shining  gayly 
through  the  curtains,  a  fixed  purpose  took 
possession  of  my  soul.  It  was  yet  early 
morning.  There  w^as  no  one  save  myself  in 
the  chamber.  Perchance  Avorn  out  by 
watching,  my  mother  had  retired  to  rest.  I 
quietly  arose  and  dressed  myself — not  in  the 
si)lendid  attire  furnished  by  my  mother,  but 
in  the  plain  white  dress,  bonnet,  and  shawl 
which  I  had  brought  with  me  from  my  cot- 
tage home.  ^ 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


43 


"It  is  early.  No  one  is  stirring  in  the 
.AAnsion.  I  can  pass  from  the  hall  door 
anobscrved.  Then  it  is  only  sixteen  miles 
to  home, — only  sixteen  miles,  I  can  walk  it." 

And  at  the  very  thought  of  meeting 
"father"  and  Ernest  again,  my  heart  leaped 
in  my  bosom.  Determined  to  escape  from 
the  mansion  at  all  hazards,  I  drew  my  vail 
over  my  face,  my  shawl  across  my  shoulders, 
and  hurried  to  the  door.  I  opened  it,  my 
foot  was  on  the  threshold,  when  I  found 
myself  confronted  by  the  portly  form  of 
Mrs.  Jenkins. 

"  Pardon  me.  Miss,"  she  said,  placing  her- 
self directly  before  me  ;  "  your  mother  gave 
me  directions  to  call  her  as  soon  as  you 
awoke." 

"But  I  wish  to  take  a  short  walk  and 
breathe  a  little  of  the  morning  air,"  I  an- 
swered, and  attempted  to  pass  her. 

"  The  morning  air  is  not  good  for  young 
ladies,"  said  another  voice,  and  my  mother's 
face  appeared  over  the  housekeeper's  shoul- 
der. "After  a  while  we  shall  take  a  ride, 
my  dear.  For  the  present,  you  will  please 
retire  to  your  room." 

Startled  at  the  sound  of  my  mother's 
voice,  I  involuntarily  stepped  back — the  door 
was  closed,  and  I  heard  the  key  turn  in  the 
lock. 

I  was  a  prisoner  in  my  own  room.  There 
I  remained  all  day  long ;  my  meals  were 
served  by  the  housekeeper  and  my  maid 
Caroline.  My  mother  did  not  appear.  How 
I  passed  that  day,  a  prisoner  in  my  luxurious 
chamber,  cannot  be  described.  I  sat  for  hours, 
with  my  head  resting  on  my  hands,  and  my 
eyes  to  the  floor.  What  plans  of  escape, 
mingled  with  forebodings  of  the  future, 
crossed  my  brain  !  At  length  I  took  pen  and 
paper,  and  wrote  a  brief  note  to  Ernest,  in- 
forming him  of  my  danger,  and  begging  him, 
as  he  loved  me,  to  hasten  at  once  to  town 
and  to  the  mansion.  This  note  I  folded,  | 
sealed,  and  directed  properly.  "  Caroline,"  j 
said  1  to  my  maid,  who  was  a  pleasant-faced  ; 
young  woman  of  about  twenty,  with  dark 
hair  and  eyes — "  I  would  like  this  letter  to 
be  placed  in  the  post-office  at  once.  Will 
you  take  charge  of  it  for  me  ?" 

"I'll  give  it  to  Jones,"  she  responded — 
"He's  goin'  down  to  the  post  office  right 
away." 


"But  Caroline,"  I  regarded  her  with  a 
meaning  look,  "  I  do  not  wish  any  one  to 
know,  that  I  sent  this  letter  to  the  post-office. 
Will  you  keep  it  a  secret  ?" 

"Not  a  livin'  mortal  shall  know  it — not  a 
livin'  mortal ;"  and  taking  the  letter  she  left 
the  room.  After  a  few  minutes  she  returned 
with  a  smiling  face,  "  Jones  has  got  it  and 
he's  gone  !" 

I  could  scarce  repress  a  wild  ejaculation 
of  joy.  Ernest  will  receive  it  to-night ;  he 
will  be  here  to-morrow  ;  I  will  be  saved  ! 

The  day  wore  on  and  my  mother  did  not 
appear.  Toward  evening  Caroline  came  into 
my  room,  bearing  a  new  dress  upon  her  arm 
— a  dress  of  white  satin,  richly  embroidered 
and  adorned  with  the  costliest  lace. 

"  0,  Miss,  aint  it  beautiful !"  cried  Caroline, 
displaying  the  dress  before  me,  "  and  the 
bonnet  and  vail  to  match  it,  wall  be  here  to- 
night, an'  your  new  di'monds.  It's  really  fit 
for  a  queen." 

It  was  indeed  a  magnificent  dress. 

"  Who  is  it  for?"  I  asked. 

"  Now,  come,  aint  that  good  !  '  Who  is  it 
for  ?'  And  you  lookin'  so  innocent  as  you 
ask  it.  As  if  you  did  not  know  all  the 
while,  that  it's  your  bridal  dress,  and  that 
you  are  to  be  married  airly  in  the  mornin', 
after  which  you  will  set  off  on  your  bridal 
toiuer." 

"  Caroline,  where  did  you  learn  this  ?"  I 
asked,  my  heart  dying  within  me. 

"  Why,  how  can  you  keep  such  things 
secret  from  the  servants  ?  Aint  your  mother 
been  gettin'  ready  for  it  all  day,  and  aint  the 
servants  been  a-flyin'  here  and  there,  like 
mad  ?  And  Mr.  Wareham's  been  so  busy 
all  day,  and  lookin'  so  pleased  !  Laws,  Miss, 
hmo  can  you  expect  to  keep  such  things  from 
the  servants  ?" 

I  heard  this  intelligence,  conveyed  in  the 
garrulous  manner  of  my  maid,  as  a  con- 
demned prisoner  might  hear  the  reading  of 
his  death  warrant.  I  saw  that  nothing  could 
shake  my  mother  in  her  purpose.  She  was 
resolved  to  accomplish  the  marriage  at  aU 
hazards.  In  the  morning  I  was  to  be  mar- 
ried, transferred  body  and  soul  to  the  posses- 
sion of  a  man  whom  I  hated  in  my  very 
heart. 

But  I  resolved  that  he  should  not  possess 
me  living.    He  might  marry  me,  but  ho 


44 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


should  onlj'  place  the  bridal  ring  upon  the 
hand  of  a  corpse. 

The  resolution  came  in  a  moment.  How 
to  accomplish  it  was  next  my  thought. 

Approaching  Caroline  in  a  guarded  manner, 
I  spoke  of  my  nervousness  and  loss  of  sleep, 
and  of  a  vial  of  morjfkine  which  my  mother 
kept  by  her  for  a  nervous  affection. 

"  Could  you  not  obtain  it  for  me,  Caroline? 
and  without  my  mother  seeing  you,  for  she 
does  not  like  me  to  accustom  myself  to  the 
use  of  morphine.  I  am  sadly  in  want  of 
yleep.  but  I  am  so  nervous  that  I  cannot 
close  my  eyes.  Get  it  for  me,"  I  put  my 
arms  about  her  neck — "that's  a  dear  good 


girl." 

"  Laws,  Miss,  how  kin  one  resist  your  purty 
eyes  !  It  is  in  the  casket  on  the  bureau,  is 
it  ?  Just  wait  a  moment she  left  the  room 
and  presently  returned.  She  held  the  vial 
in  her  hand.  I  took  it  eagerly,  pretended  to 
place  it  in  the  drawer  of  a  cabinet  which 
stood  near  the  bed,  but,  in  realitj'-,  hid  it  in 
my  bosom. 

"  Now  mother,  you  may  force  on  the 
marriage,"  I  mentally  ejaculated  ;  "but  your 
daughter  has  the  threads  of  her  own  destiny 
in  her  hand." 

How  had  I  accustomed  myself  to  the  idea 
of  suicide?  It  caoc  upon  me  not  slowly, 
but  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  It  was  in  op- 
position to  all  the  lessons  I  had  learned  from 
the  good  clergyman.  *But,'  the  voice  of  the 
tempter,  seemed  whispering  in  my  ear — 
'  while  suicide  is  a  crime,  it  becomes  a  vir- 
tue when  it  is  committed  to  avoid  a  greater 
crime.'  It  is  wrong  to  kill  my  body,  but 
infinitely  worse  to  kill  both  body  and  soul  in 
the  prostitution  of  an  unholy  marriage. 

As  evening  drew  on  I  was  left  alone.  I 
hathed  myself,  arranged  my  hair,  and  then 
attired  myself  in  my  white  night-robe.  And 
then,  as  the  last  glimpse  of  day  came  faintly 
through  the  -svindow  curtains,  I  sank  on  my 
knees  by  the  bed,  and  prayed.  0  how  in 
one  vivid  picture  the  holy  memories  of  the 
past  came  upon  me,  in  that  awful  moment ! 

**  Ernest  I  will  meet  you  in  the  better 
world !" 

I  drank  the  contents  of  the  vial  and  rose 
to  my  feet.  At  the  same  instant  the  door 
opened  and  my  mother  appeared,  holding  a 
lighted  candle  in  her  hand.    She  saw  me  in 


my  white  dress,  was  struck,  perchance,  by 
the  wildness  of  my  gaze,  and  then  her  eye 
rested  upon  the  extended  hand  which  held 
the  vial. 

"  Well,  Frank,  how  do  you  like  your  mar- 
riage dress,"  she  began,  but  stopped,  and 
changed  color  as  she  saw  the  vial. 

"  0,  mother,"  I  cried,  "  with  my  last  breath 
I  forgive  you,  and  pray  God  that  you  may 
be  able  to  forgive  yourself." 

I  saw  her  horror-stricken  look  and  I  fell 
insensible  at  her  feet. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  SALE  IS  COMPLETE. 

When  I  awoke  again — but  I  cannnot  pro 
ceed.  There  are  crimes  done  every  day, 
which  the  world  knows  by  heart,  and  yet 
1  shudders  to  see  recorded,  even  in  the  most 
I  carefully  vailed  phrase.  But  the  crime  of 
which  I  was  the  victim,  was  too  horrible 
for  belief.  Wareham  the  criminal,  my  own 
mother  the  accomplice,  the  victim  a  girl  of 
fifteen,  who  had  been  reared  in  purity  and 
innocence  afar  from  the  world. 

When  I  awoke  again — for  the  potion  failed 
to  kill — I  found  myself  in  my  room,  and 
Wareham  by  my  side,  surveying  me  as  a 
ghoul  might  look  upon  the  dead  body  which 
he  has  stolen  from  the  grave.  The  vial 
given  to  me  by  the  maid  did  not  contain  a 
fatal  poison,  but  merely  a  powerful  anodyne, 
which  sealed  my  senses  for  hours  in  sleep, 
and  —  combined  with  the  reaction  of  har- 
rowing excitement — left  me  for  days  in  a 
state  of  half  dreamy  consciousness.  I  awoke 
*  =fc  *  *  My  sight  was  dim,  my  senses 
dulled,  but  I  knew  that  I  w^as  lost !  Lost ! 
0,  how  poor  and  tame  that  word,  to  express 
the  living  damnation  of  which  I  was  the 
victim  !  The  events  of  the  next  twenty- four 
hours,  I  can  but  vaguely  remember.  I  was 
taken  from  the  bed,  arrayed  in  the  bridal 
costume,  and  then  led  down  stairs  into  the 
parlor.  There  Avas  a  marriage  celebrated 
there  (as  I  was  afterward  told)  —  yes!  it 
was  there  that  a  minister  of  the  Gospel, 
book  in  hand,  sanctified  with  the  name  of 
marriage,  the  accursed  bargain  of  which  I 
was  the  victim — mamage,  that  sacrament 
which  makes  of  home,  God's  holiest  altar, 
the  truest  type  of  Heaven — marriage  was,  in 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


45 


fiiy  case,  made  the  cloak  of  an  unspeakable 
crime.  I  can  remember  that  I  said  some 
words,  which  my  mother  whispered  in  my 
ear,  and  that  I  signed  my  name  to  a  letter 
which  she  had  written.  It  was  the  letter 
which  Ernest  received,  announcing  my  inten- 
tion to  visit  Niagara.  As  for  the  letter  which 
I  had  written  to  him,  on  the  previous  day, 
it  never  went  farther  than  from  the  hands  of 
Caroline  to  those  of  my  mother.  I  was  hur- 
ried into  a  carriage,  Wareham  by  my  side, 
and  then  on  board  of  a  steamboat,  and  have  a 
vague  consciousness  of  passing  up  the  Hud- 
son river.  I  did  not  clearly  recover  my 
senses,  until  I  found  myself  at  Niagara  Falls, 
leaning  on  Wareham's  arm,  and  pointed  at 
by  the  crowd  of  visitors  at  the  Falls,  as  "  the 
beautiful  bride  of  the  Millionaire." 

From  the  Falls,  we  passed  up  the  Lakes, 
and  then  retraced  our  steps;  visited  the  Falls 
again;  journeyed  to  Montreal,  and  then  home 
by  Lake  Champlain  and  the  Hudson  river. 
My  mother  did  not  accompany  us.  We 
were  gone  three  months,  and  as  the  boat 
glided  down  the  Hudson,  the  trees  were 
already  touched  by  autumn.  As  the  boat 
drew  near  Tapaan  bay,  I  concealed  myself  in 
my  stateroom — I  dared  not  look  upon  my 
cottage  home. 

We  arrived  at  home  toward  the  close  of  a 
September  day.  My  mother  met  me  at  the 
door,  calm  and  smiling.  She  gave  me  her 
hand — but  I  pushed  it  gently  away.  Ware- 
ham  led  me  up  the  steps.  I  stood  once 
more  in  that  house,  from  which  I  had  gone 
forth,  like  one  walking  in  their  sleep.  And 
that  night,  in  our  chamber,  Wareham  and 
myself  held  a  conversation,  which  had  an 
important  bearing  on  his  life  and  mine. 

I  was  sitting  alone  in  my  chamber,  dressed 
in  a  white  wrapper,  and  my  hair  flowing 
unconfined  upon  my  shoulders  ;  my  hands 
were  clasped  and  my  head  bent  upon  my 
breast.  I  was  thinking  of  the  events  of  the 
last  three  months,  of  all  that  I  had  endured 
from  the  man  whose  very  presence  in  the 
same  room,  filled  me  with  loathing.  My 
husband  entered,  followed  by  Jenkins,  who 
placed  a  lighted  candle,  a  bottle  of  wine  and 
glasses  on  the  table,  and  then  retired. 

"  What,  is  my  pretty  girl  all  alone,  and  in 
a  thinking  mood  ?"  cried  Wareham,  seating 
himself  by  the  table  and  filling  a  glass  with 


wine  ;  "  and  pray,  my  love,  what  is  the  sub- 
ject of  your  thoughts?" 

And  raising  the  glass  to  his  lips,  he  sur- 
veyed me  from  head  to  foot  with  that  gloat- 
ing gaze  which  always  gave  a  singular  light 
to  his  eyes.  His  face  was  slightly  flushed 
on  the  colorless  cheeks.  He  had  already 
been  drinking  freely,  and  was  now  evidently 
under  the  influence  of  wine. 

"  You  have  a  fine  bust,  my  girl,"  he  con- 
tinued, as  though  he  was  repeating  the 
"  points"  of  a  horse ;  "  a  magnificent  arm,  a 
foot  that  beats  the  Medicean  Venus  all  hol- 
low, and  limbs, — "  he  paused  and  sipped  his 
wine,  protruding  his  nether  lip  which  now 
was  scarlet  red, — "  such  limbs  !  I  like  the 
expression  of  jour  eyes — there's  fire  in 
them,  and  your  clear  brown  complexion,  and 
your  moist  red  lips,  and, — "  he  sipped  Ms 
wine  again, — "  altogether  an  elegantly  built 
female." 

And  he  rose  and  approached  me.  I  also 
rose,  my  eyes  flashing  and  my  bosom  swell- 
ing with  suppressed  rage. 

"  Wareham,  I  warn  you  not  to  touch  me," 
I  said  in  a  low  voice.  '  "  For  three  months  I 
have  been  your  prey.  I  will  be  so  no  longer. 
Before  the  world  you  may  call  me  wife,  if 
you  choose — you  have  bought  the  right  to 
do  that — but  I  inform  you,  once  for  all,  that 
henceforth  we  are  strangers.  Do  you  under- 
stand me,  Wareham  ?  I  had  as  lief  be 
chained  to  a  corpse  as  to  submit  to  be 
touched  by  you." 

He  fell  back  startled,  his  face  manifesting 
surprise  and  anger,  but  in  an  instant  his  gaze 
was  upon  me  again,  and  he  indulged  in  a 
low  burst  of  laughter. 

"  Come,  I  like  this !  It  is  a  pleasant 
change  from  the  demure,  pious  girl  of  three 
months  ago  to  the  full-blown  tragedy- 
queen."  He  sank  into  a  chair  and  filled 
another  glass  of  wine.  "Be  seated,  Frank, 
I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  my  pet." 

I  resumed  my  seat. 

"  You  give  yourself  airs  under  the  impres- 
sion that  you  are  my  wife, — joint  owner  of 
my  immense  fortune,  —  my  rich  widow  iu 
perspective.  Erroneous  impression,  Frank. 
I  have  a  wife  living  in  England." 

The  entirely  malignant  look,  which  acconi 
panied  these  words,  convinced  me  of  tluji* 
sincerity.    For  a  moment  I  felt  as  thoujh 


46 


FKANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


an  awful  weight  had  crushed  my  brain,  and 
by  a  glance  at  the  mirror,  I  saw  I  was  fright- 
fully pale  ;  but  recovering  myself  by  a  strong 
exertion  of  will,  I  answered  him  in  these 
words  : 

"Gentlemen,  who  allow  themselves  more 
than  one  wife  at  a  time,  are  sometimes 
(owing  to  an  unfortunate  prejudice  of  soci- 
etf)  invited  to  occupy  an  apartment  in  the 
state  prison." 

"And  so  you  think  you  hold  a  rod  over 
my  head?" — he  drank  his  wine — "but  I 
have  only  one  wife,  Frank,  The  gentleman, 
who  married  jon  and  me,  was  neither  cler- 
gyman nor  officer  of  the  law,  but  simply  a 
convenient  friend.  Our  mock  marriage  was 
not  even  published  in  the  papers." 

Every  word  went  like  an  icebolt  to  my 
heart.  I  could  not  speak.  Then,  as  his  eyes 
glared  with  a  mingled  look  of  hatred  and 
of  brutal  passion,  he  sipped  his  wine  as  he 
surveyed  me,  and  continued  : 

"  You  used  the  word  '  bought'  some  time 
ago.  You  were  right.  'Bought'  is  the 
word.  You  are  simply  my  purchase.  In 
Constantinople  these  things  are  easily  man- 
aged ;  they  keep  an  open  market  of  fine 
girls  there  ;  but  here  we  must  find  an  a£fable 
mother,  and  pay  a  huge  price — sometimes 
even  marry  the  dear  angels.  I  met  your 
mother  in  Paris  some  years  ago,  and  have 
been  intimately  acquainted  with  her  ever 
since.  When  she  first  spoke  of  you,  you 
were  a  child  and  I  was  weary  of  the  world — 
jaded,  sick  of  its  pleasures,  by  which  I  mean 
its  women.  An  idea  struck  me  !  What  if 
this  pretty  little  child,  now  being  educated 
in  innocence  and  pious  ways,  and  so  forth, 
should,  in  the  full  blossom  of  her  beauty  and 
piety — say  at  the  ripe  age  of  sixteen — ^be- 
come the  consoler  of  my  declining  years? 
And  so  I  paid  the  expenses  of  your  educa- 
tion (your  father  consenting  that  I  should 
adopt  you,  but  very  possibly  understanding 
the  whole  matter  as  well  as  your  mother), 
and  you  were  accordingly  educated  for  me. 
And  when  I  first  saw  you,  three  months  ago, 
it  was  your  very  innocence  and  pious  way 
of  talking  which  gave  an  irresistible  eff"ect  to 
your  beauty,  and  made  me  mad  to  possess 
you  at  all  hazards." 

It  is  impossible  to  depict  the  bitter  mock- 
ing tone  in  which  these  words  were  spoken. 


"  I  settled  this  mansion,  the  furniture,  and 
so  forth  upon  your  mother,  with  ten  thou- 
sand dollars.  That  was  the  price.  You  see 
how  much  you  have  cost  me,  my  dear." 

"But  I  will  leave  your  accursed  man- 
sion." I  felt,  as  I  spoke,  as  though  my 
heart  was  dead  in  my  bosom.  "  I  am  not 
chained  to  you  in  marriage ;  I  am,  at  least, 
free."  I  started  to  my  feet  and  moved  a 
step  toward  the  door. 

"But  where  will  you  go?  back  to  your 
elderly  clerical  friend,  with  every  fijiger 
leveled  at  you  and  every  voice  whispering 
*  There  goes  the  mistress  of  the  rich  English- 
man !'  Back  to  your  village  lover  to  palm 
yourself  upon  him  as  a  pure  and  spotless 
maiden?" 

I  sank  into  a  chair  and  covered  my  face 
with  my  hands.  / 

"Or  will  you  begin  the  life  of  a  poor 
seamstress,  working  sixteen  hours  per  day  for 
as  many  pennies,  and  at  last,  take  to  the 
streets  for  bread?" 

His  w^ords  cut  me  to  the  quick.  I  saw 
that  there  was  no  redemption  in  this  world 
for  a  woman  whose  innocence  has  beeai 
sacrificed. 

"  But  think  better  of  it,  my  dear.  Your 
mother  shall  surround  you  with  the  most 
select  and  fashionable  company  in  New 
York, — she  shall  give  splendid  parties, — you 
will  be  the  presiding  genius  of  every  festi- 
val. As  for  myself,  dropping  the  name  of 
husband,  I  will  sink  into  an  unobtrusive 
visitor.  When  you  see  a  little  more  of  the 
world  you  will  not  think  your  case  such  a 
hard  one  after  all." 

My  face  buried  in  my  hands,  I  had  not 
one  word  of  reply.  Lost, — lost, — utterly 
lost! 

CHAPTER  XY. 
"lost,  lost  utterly." 
My  mother  soon  afterward  gave  her  first 
party.  It  was  attended  by  many  of  the  rich 
and  the  fashionable  of  both  sexes,  and  there 
Avere  the  glare  of  lights,  the  presence  of  beau- 
tiful women,  and  the  wine-cup  and  the 
dance.  The  festival  was  prolonged  till  day- 
break, and  another  followed  soon.  The 
atmosphere  was  new  to  me.  At  first  I  was 
amazed,  then  intoxicated,  and  then — cor- 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


47 


rupted.  Anxious  to  bury  the  memory  of  | 
my  sliame,  to  forget  how  lost  and  abandoned 
I  was,  to  drown  every  thought  of  my  chikl- 
hood's  home  and  of  Ernest,  who  never  could 
be  mine,  soon  from  a  silent  spectator  I  be- 
came a  participant  in  the  revels  which,  night 
after  night,  were  held  beneath  my  mother's 
roof.  The  persons  who  mingled  in  these 
scenes,  were  rich  husbands  who  came  accom- 
panied by  other  men's  wives ;  wives,  who 
had  sacrificed  themselves  in  marriage,  for  the 
sake  of  wealth,  to  husbands  twice  their  age, 
and  these  came  with  the  husbands  of  other 
women, — in  a  word,  all  that  came  to  the 
mansion  and  shared  in  its  orgies,  were  either 
the  victims  or  the  criminals  of  society, — of  a 
bad  social  world,  which  on  every  hand  con- 
trasts immense  wealth  and  voluptuous  indul- 
gence with  fathomless  povert}'-  and  withering 
want,  and  which  too  often  makes  of  a  mar- 
riage but  the  cloak  for  infamy  and  prostitu- 
tion. I  shared  in  every  revel,  and  lost 
myself  in  their  maddening  excitement.  I 
was  admired,  flattered,  and  elevated  at  last 
to  the  position  of  presiding  genius  of  these 
scenes.  I  became  the  "Midnight  Queen." 
But  let  the  curtain  fall. 

One  night  I  noticed  a  new  visitor,  a  re- 
markably handsome  gentleman  who  sat  near 
me  at  the  supper-table,  and  whose  hair  and 
eyes  and  whiskers  were  black  as  jet.  He 
regarded  me  very  earnestly  and  with  a  look 
which  I  could  not  define. 

"Don't  think  me  impertinent,"  he  said, 
and  then  added  in  a  lower  voice,  "for  I  am 
your  father,  Frank.  Don't  call  me  Van 
Huyden — my  name  is  Tarleton  now." 

Fearful  that  I  might  one  day  encounter 
Ernest,  I  wrote  him  a  long  letter  breathing 
something  of  the  tone  of  my  early  days  — 
for  I  forgot  for  awhile  my  utterly  hopeless 
condition — and  informing  him  that  mother 
and  myself  were  about  to  sail  for  Europe. 
I  wished  him  to  believe  that  I  was  in  a 
foreign  land. 

And  one  night,  while  the  revel  was  pro- 
gressing in  the  rooms  below,  Wareham  en- 
tered my  room  and  interested  me  in  the 
description  which  he  gave  of  a  young  lord, 
who  wished  to  be  introduced  to  me. 

"Young,  handsome,  and  pale  as  if  from 
thought.  The  very  style  of  man  you  admire, 
my  pet." 


I  "Let  him  come  up,"  1  answered,  and 
Wareham  retired. 

I  stood  before  the  mirror  as  the  young  lord 
entered,  and  as  I  turned,  I  saw  the  face  of 
my  betrothed  husband,  Ernest  Walworth. 

Upon  the  horror  of  that  moment  I  need 
not  dwell. 

He  fell  insensible  to  the  floor,  and  was 
carried  from  the  room  and  the  house  to  the 
carriage  by  Wareham,  who  had  led  him  to 
the  place. 

I  have  never  seen  the  face  of  Ernest  since 
that  hour. 

I  received  one  letter  from  him  —  one 
only  —  in  which  he  set  forth  the  circum- 
stances which  induced  him  to  visit  my 
house,  and  in  which  he  bade  me  "  fare- 
well." 

He  is  now  in  a  foreign  land.  The  bones 
of  his  father  rest  in  the  village  churchyard. 
The  cottage  home  is  desolate. 

Wareham  died  suddenly  about  a  year  after 
our  "marriage."  The  doctors  said  that  his 
death  was  caused  by  an  overdose  of  Morphine 
administered  hy  himself  in  mistake.  He  died 
in  our  house,  and  as  mother  and  myself  stood 
over  his  cofiSn  in  the  darkened  room,  the  day 
before  the  funeral,  I  noticed  that  she  regard- 
ed first  myself  and  then  the  face  of  the  dead 
profligate  with  a  look  full  of  meaning. 

"Don't  you  think,  dear  mother,"  I  whis- 
pered, "  that  the  death  of  this  good  man  was 
very  singular  ?" 

She  made  no  reply,  but  still  her  face  wore 
that  meaning  look. 

"  Would  it  be  strange,  mother,  if  your 
daughter,  improving  on  your  lessons,  had 
added  another  feature  to  her  accomplish- 
ments— had  from  the  Midnight  Queen," — I 
lowered  my  voice — "  become  the  Midnight 
Poisoner  f" 

I  met  her  gaze  boldly — and  she  turned 
her  face  away. 

He  died  without  ever  a  dog  to  mourn  for 
him,  and  his  immense  wealth  was  inherited 
by  a  deserted  and  much  abused  wife,  who 
lived  in  a  foreign  land. 

Immense  wealth  in  him  bore  its  natural 
flower — a  life  of  shameless  indulgence,  end- 
ing in  a  miserable  death. 

I  did  not  shed  very  bitter  tears  at  his  fu- 
neral. Hatred  is  not  the  word  to  express  the 
feeling  with  which  I  regard  his  memory. 


48 


FRANK  VAN  HUYDEN. 


Soon  afterward  my  mother  was  taken  ill, 
and  wasted  rapidly  to  death.  Hers  was  an 
awful  death-bed.  The  candle  was  burning 
to  its  socket,  and  mingled  its  rays  with  the 
pale  moonlight  which  shone  through  the 
window-curtains.  Her  brown  hair,  streaked 
with  gray,  falling  to  her  shoulders,  her  form 
terribly  emaciated,  and  her  eyes  glaring  in 
lier  shrunken  face,  she  started  up  in  her  bed, 
clutched  my  hands  in  hers,  and  —  begged 
me  to  forgive  her. 

My  heart  was  stone.  I  could  not  frame 
one  forgiving  word. 

As  her  chilled  hands  clutched  mine,  she 
rapidly  went  over  the  dark  story  of  her  life, — 
how  from  an  innocent  girl,  she  had  been 
hardened  into  the  thiijg  she  was, — and  again, 
her  eyes  glaring  on  my  face,  besought  my 
forgiveness. 

"I  forgive  you.  Mother,"  I  said  slowly, 
and  she  died. 


My  father  was  not  present  at  her  death, 
nor  did  he  attend  her  funeral. 

And  for  myself — what  has  the  Future  in 
store  for  me  ? 

0,  for  Rest !  0,  for  Forgiveness  !  0,  for  a 
quiet  Sleep  beneath  the  graveyard  sod  ! 

And  with  that  aspiration  for  Rest,  For- 
giveness, Peace,  uttered  with  all  the  yearn- 
ing of  a  heart  sick  to  the  core,  of  life  and  all 
that  life  can  inflict  or  give,  ended  the  manu- 
script of  Frances  Van  Huyden,  the  Mid- 
night Queen. 


It  is  now  our  task  to  describe  certain  scenes 
which  took  place  in  New  York,  between 
Nightfall  and  Midnight,  on  this  23d  of  De- 
cember, 1844.  And  at  midnight  we  will 
enter  The  Temple  where  the  death's  head 
is  hidden  among  voluptuous  flowers. 


NEW    Y  0  E  K : 

ITS 

[JPPER-TEN  AND  LOWER  MILLION. 


PART  SECOND. 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT.' 

DEC.  23,  1S44. 


CHAPTER  1. 

BLOODHOUND  AND  THE  UNKNOWN. 

Two  persons  were  sitting  at  a  table,  in  the 
Kefectory  beneath  Lovejoy's  Hotel.  One  of 
these  drank  brandy  and  the  other  drank 
water.  The  brandy  drinker  was  our  friend 
Bloodhound,  and  the  drinker  of  water  was 
a  singular  personage,  whose  forehead  was 
shaded  by  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  while  the 
lower  part  of  his  face  was  covered  by  a  blue 
kerchief,  which  was  tied  over  his  throat  and 
mouth. 

Seated  at  a  table  in  the  center  of  the 
place,  these  two  conversed  in  low  tones, 
while  all  around  was  uproar  and  confu- 
sion. 

"  You  found  these  persons  ?"  said  the 
gentleman  with  the  broad-brimmed  hat  and 
blue  neckerchief. 

"I  didn't  do  anything  else,"  replied  the 
Hound — ''I  met  you  here,  at  Lovejoy's, 
about  dusk.  You  were  a  tee-total  stranger 
to  me.  You  says,  says  you,  that  you'd  like 
to  do  a  good  turn  to  Harry  Eoyalton,  and  at 
the  same  time  fix  this  white  nigger  and  his 
sister — you  know  who  I  mean  ?" 

"  Randolph  and  Esther—" 

"  Well,  we  closed  our  bargain.  You  gave 
me  a  note  to  Randolph  and  one  to  his  sister. 
I  hunted  'em  out  and  delivered  your  notes, 
and  here  I  am." 

Bloodhound  smiled  one  of  his  most  fright- 
ful smiles,  and  consoled  himself  with  a  glass 
of  brandy. 

"  Where  did  you  find  these  persons  ?" 
asked  Blue  Kerchief. 

"At  a  tip-top  boardin'  house  up  town,  ac-  j 
cordin'  to  your  directions.  I  fust  saw  the 
boy  and  delivered  your  note,  and  arter  ho 


was  gone  I  saw  the  gal  and  did  the  same. 
Now,  old  boss,  do  you  think  they'll  come  ?" 
You  saw  the  contents  of  those  notes  ?" 

"  I  did.  I  saw  you  write  'em  and  read  'em 
afore  you  sealed  'em  up.  The  one  to  Ran- 
dolph requested  him  to  be  at  a  sartin  place 
on  the  Five  Points  about  twelve  o'clock. 
An'  the  one  to  Esther  requested  her  to  be 
at  the  Temple  about  the  same  hour.  Now 
do  you  think  they'll  come  ?" 

"  You  have  seen  Grodlike  and  Royalton 
said  the  unknown,  speaking  thickly  through 
the  neckerchief  which  enveloped  his  mouth. 

"  Godlike  will  be  at  the  Temple  as  the 
clock  strikes  twelve,  and  Harry  and  me  will 
be  at  Five  Points,  at  the  identical  spot — you 
know — at  the  very  same  identical  hour." 

"  That  is  sufficient.  Here  is  the  sum  I 
promised  you,"  and  the  stranger  laid  two 
broad  gold  pieces  oji  the  table  :  we  must 
now  part.  Should  I  ever  need  you,  w^e  will 
meet  again.    Good  night." 

And  the  stranger  rose,  and  left  the  refec- 
tory. Bloodhound  turning  his  head  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  watched  his  retreating  figure 
with  dumb  amazement. 

"  Cool !  I  call  it  cool !"  he  soliloquised  ; 
"  Waiter,  see  here  ;  another  glass  of  brandy. 
Yet  this  is  good  gold  ;  has  the  right  ring, 
hey  ?  Judas  Iscariot  !  Somehow  or  'nother, 
everything  I  touch  turns  to  gold.  Wonder 
what  the  chap  in  the  blue  handkercher  has 
agin  the  white  nigger  and  his  sister  ?  Who 
keers  ?  At  twelve  to-night  Godlike  will 
have  the  gal,  and  Harry  and  I  will  have  the 
nigger.  Ju-das  Iscariot !"  Here  let  us  leave 
the  Bloodhound  for  awhile,  to  his  solemn 
meditations  and  his  glass  of  brandy. 


(49) 


50 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


CHAPTER  IL 

THE  CANAL  STREET  SUIRT  STORE. 

"  Do  you  call  them  stitches  ?  S-a-y  ? 
How  d'ye  expect  a  man  to  git  a  livin'  if  he's 
robbed  in  that  way  ?  Do  you  call  that  a 
shirt — s-a-y  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  did  my  best — " 

"  Did  your  best  ?  I  should  like  to  know 
what  you  take  mc  for  ?  D'ye  think  I'm  a 
fool  ?•  Did  not  I  give  you  the  stuff  for  jBve 
shirts,  and  fust  of  all,  I  exacted  a  pledge  of 
five  dollars  from  you,  to  be  forfeited  if  you 
spoilt  the  stuff — " 

"  And  you  know  I  was  to  receive  two  shil- 
Imgs  for  each  shirt.  I'll  thank  you  to  pay 
me  my  money,  and  restore  my  five  dollars 
and  let  me  go — " 

"  Not  a  copper.  This  shirt  is  spoilt.  And 
if  those  you  have  in  your  arms  are  no  better, 
why  they  are  spoilt  too — " 

"  They're  made  as  well  as  the  one  you 
hold — no  better." 

"  Then  I  can't  sell  'em  for  old  rags.  Just 
give  'em  to  me,  and  clear  out — " 

"  At  least  give  me  back  my  five  dol- 
lars—" 

"  Not  a  copper.  Had  you  finished  these 
shirts  in  the  right  style,  they'd  a-sold  for  fif- 
teen dollars.  As  it  is,  the  money  is  forfeit- 
ed,— ^I  mean  the  five  dollars  which  you  left 
with  me  as  a  pledge.  I  can't  employ  you 
any  more.  Just  give  me  the  other  four 
shirts,  and  clear  out." 

The  storekeeper  and  the  poor  girl  were 
separated  by  a  counter,  on  which  was  placed 
a  showy  case.  She  was  dressed  in  a  faded 
calico  gown,  and  a  shawl  as  worn  and  faded, 
hung  about  her  shoulders.  She  wore  a  straw 
bonnet,  although  it  was  a  night  in  mid-win- 
ter ;  and  beneath  her  poverty-stricken  dress, 
her  shoes  were  visible  :  old  and  worn  into 
shreds  they  scarcely  clung  to  her  feet.  Her 
entire  appearance  indicated  extreme  pover- 
ty. 

The  storekeeper,  who  stood  beneath  the 
gas-light,  was  a  well  preserved  and  portly 
man  of  forty  years,  or  more,  with  a  bald  head, 
a  wide  mouth  and  a  snub  nose.  Rings  glis- 
tered on  his  fat  fingers.  His  black  velvet 
vest  was  crossed  by  a  gold  chain.  His  spot- 
less shirt  bosom  was  decorated  by  a  flashy 


breastpin.  He  spoke  sharp  and  quick,  and 
with  a  proper  sense  of  his  dignity  as  the 
Proprietor  of  the  "only  universal  shirt 
STORE,  No.  ,  Canal  St.,  New  York." 

Between  him  and  the  girl  was  a  glass  case, 
in  which  were  displayed  shirts  of  the  most 
elegant  patterns  and  elaborate  Avorkmanship, 
Behind  him  were  shelves,  lined  with  boxes, 
also  filled  with  shirts,  whose  prices  were  la- 
beled on  the  outside  of  each  box.  At  his 
right-hand,  was  the  shop-window, — a  small 
room  in  itself — flaring  with  gas,  and  crowd- 
ed with  shirts  of  all  imaginable  shapes — 
shirts  with  high  collars,  Byron  collars,  and 
shirts  without  any  collars  at  all ; — shirts  with 
plaits  large,  small  and  infinitesimal — shirts 
with  ruffles,  shirts  with  stripes  and  shirts 
with  spots  ; — in  fact,  looking  into  the  win- 
dow, you  would  have  imagined  that  Mr. 
Screw  Grabs  was  a  very  Ajpostle  of  clean 
linen,  with  a  mission  to  clothe  a  benighted 
world,  with  shirts;  and  that  his  Temple, 
^Hlie  Only  Universal  Shirt  Store,"  waa 
the  most  important  place  on  the  face  of  the 
globe.  There,  too,  appeared  eloquent  ap- 
peals to  passers-by.  These  were  printed  on 
cards,  in  immense  capitals, — "  Shirts  for 
the  Million  !  The  Great  Shirt  Em- 
porium !  "Who  would  be  without  a  shirty 
when  Screw  Gi-ab  sells  them  for  only  $1  ? 
This  IS  the  ONLY  Shirt  Store,"— and  so 
on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

The  conversation  which  we  have  recorded, 
took  place  in  this  store,  soon  after  '  gas-light* 
on  the  evening  of  Dec.  23d,  1844,  between 
Mr.  Screw  Grabb  and  the  Poor  Girl,  who 
stood  before  him,  holding  a  small  bundle  in 
her  arms. 

"  You  surely  do  not  mean  to  retain  my 
money  ?"  said  the  girl — and  she  laid  one 
hand  against  the  counter,  and  attentively  sur- 
veyed the  face  of  Mr.  Grabb — "  You  fijQd 
fault  with  my  work — " 

"Never  saw  wuss  stitchin'  in  my  life," 
said  Grabb. 

"  But  that  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
refuse  to  return  the  money  which  I  placed 
in  your  hands.  Consider,  Sir,  you  will  dis- 
tress me  very  much.  I  really  cannot  afford 
to  lose  that  five  dollars, — indeed — " 

She  turned  toward  him  a  face  which,  im- 
pressed as  it  was  with  a  look  of  extreme  dis- 
tress, was  also  invested  with  the  light  of  a 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


51 


clear,  calm,  almost  holy  beauty.  It  was  the 
face  of  a  girl  of  sixteen,  whom  thought  and 
anxiety  had  ripened  into  grave  and  serious 
womanhood.  Her  brown  hair  was  gathered 
neatly  under  her  faded  straw  bonnet,  display- 
ing a  forehead  which  bore  traces  of  a  cor- 
roding care ;  there  was  light  and  life  in  her 
large  eyes,  light  and  life  without  much  of 
hope ;  there  was  youth  on  her  cheeks  and 
lips ;  youth  fresh  and  virgin,  and  unstained 
by  the  touch  of  sin. 

"Will  you  give  me  them  four  shirts, — 
s-a-y?"  was  the  answer  of  Grabb, — "  them 
as  you  has  in  your  bundle  there?" 

The  girl  for  a  moment  seemed  buried  in 
reflection.  May -be  the  thought  of  a  dreary 
winter  night  and  a  desolate  home  was  busy 
at  her  heart.  When  she  raised  her  head  she 
fixed  her  eyes  fiill  upon  the  face  of  Mr. 
Grabb,  and  said  distinctly  : 

"  I  will  not  give  you  these  shirts  until  you 
return  my  money."" 

"  What's  that  you  say?  You  won't  give 
'em  back — wont  you?"  and  Mr.  Grabb  dart- 
ed around  the  counter,  yardstick  in  hand. 
"We'll  see, — we'll  see.  Now  just  hand  'em 
over !" 

He  placed  himself  between  her  and  the 
door,  and  raised  the  yardstick  over  her 
head. 

The  girl  retreated  step  by  step,  Mr.  Grabb 
advancing  as  she  retreated,  with  the  yard- 
stick in  his  fat  hand. 

"  Give  'em  up, — "  he  seized  her  arm,  and 
attempted  to  tear  the  bundle  from  her  grasp. 
"Give  'em  up  you  "  he  applied  an  epi- 
thet which  he  had  heard  used  by  a  manager 
of  a  theater  to  the  unfortunate  girls  in  his 
employment. 

At  the  word,  the  young  w^oman  retreated 
into  a  corner  behind  the  counter,  her  face 
flushed  and  her  eyes  flashing  with  an  almost 
savage  light — 

"You  cowardly  villain!"  she  said,  ^' to  in- 
sult me  because  I  will  not  permit  you  to 
rob  me.  0,  you  despicable  coward  —  for 
shame  !" 

The  look  of  her  eye  and  curl  of  her  lip 
by  no  means  pleased  the  corpulent  Grabb. 
He  grew  red  with  rage.  Wlien  he  spoke 
again  it  was  in  a  loud  voice  and  with  an 
emphatic  sweep  of  the  yardstick. 

"If  you  don't  give  'em  up,  I'll  —  I'll 


break  every  bone  in  your  body.  You  hussy! 
You   !  What  do  you  think  of  your- 
self— to  attempt  to  rob  a  poor  man  of  his 
jjroperty?" 

These  words  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
passers-by;  and  in  a  moment,  the  doorway 
was  occupied  by  a  throng  of  curious  specta- 
tors. The  poor  girl,  looking  over  Grabb's 
shoulders,  saw  that  she  was  the  object  of  the 
gaze  of  some  dozen  pairs  of  eyes. 

"  Gentlemen,  this  hussy  has  attempted  to 
rob  me  of  my  property!  I  gave  her  stuff 
sufficient  to  make  five  shirts,  and  she 's  spoilt 
'ern  so  I  can't  sell  'em  for  old  rags,  and — and 
she  won't  give  'em  up." 

"  If  they  aint  good  for  nothing,  what  d  'ye 
want  with  'em?"  remarked  the  foremost  of 
the  spectators. 

But  Grabb  was  determined  to  bring  mat- 
ters to  a  crisis. 

"Now,  look  here,"  he  said,  holding  the 
yardstick  in  front  of  the  girl,  and  thus  im- 
prisoning her  in  the  corner;  "if  you  don't 
give  ■'em  up,  I  '11  strip  the  clothes  from  your 
back." 

The  girl  turned  scarlet  in  the  face ;  her 
arms  sank  slowly  to  her  side  ;  the  bundle 
fell  from  her  hands ;  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Shame  !  shame  !"  cried  one  of  the  spec- 
tators. 

"  It 's  the  way  he  does  business,"  added  a 
voice  in  the  background.  "  He  won't  give 
out  any  work  unless  the  girl,  who  applies  for 
it,  places  some  money  in  his  hands  as  a 
pledge.  When  the  work  is  brought  into  the 
store,  he  pretends  that  it 's  spoilt,  and  keeps 
the  money.  That 's  the  way  he  raises 
capital !" 

"What's  that  you  say?"  cried  Grabb, 
turning  fiercely  on  the  crowd,  who  had  ad- 
vanced some  one  or  two  paces  into  the  store. 
"Who  said  that?" 

A  man  in  a  coarse,  brown  bang-up  ad- 
vanced from  the  crowd — 

"  I  said  it,  and  I  '11  stand  to  it !  Aint 
you  a  purty  specimen  of  a  bald-headed 
Christian,  to  try  and  cheat  the  poor  girl  out 
of  her  hard-airned  money?" 

"I'll  call  the  police,"  cried  Grabb. 

"  What  a  pattern  !  what  a  beauty  !"  con- 
tinued the  man  in  the  brown  bang-up ; 
"  why  rotten  eggs  'ud  be  wasted  on  such  a 
carcass  as  that !" 


52 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


"  Police  !  Police  !"  screamed  Grabb, — 
*'  Gentlemen,  I 'd  like  to  know  if  there  is  any 
law  in  this  land  ?" 

While  this  altercation  was  in  progress  the 
poor  girl — thoroughly  ashamed  to  find  her- 
self the  center  of  a  public  broil  —  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands  and  wept  as  if  her 
heart  would  break. 

"  Take  my  arm,"  said  a  voice  at  her  side; 
"  there  will  be  a  fight.  Quick,  my  dear  Miss, 
you  must  get  out  of  this  as  quick  as 
possible." 

The  speaker  was  a  short  and  slender  man, 
wrapped  in  a  Spanish  mantle,  and  his  hat 
was  drawn  low  over  his  forehead. 

The  girl  seized  his  ama,  and  while  the 
crowd  formed  a  circle  around  Grabb  and  the 
brown  bang-up,  they  contrived  to  pass  unob- 
aerved  from  the  store.  Presently  the  poor 
girl  was  hurrying  along  Canal  street,  her 
hand  still  clasping  the  arm  of  the  stranger 
in  the  cloak. 

"  Bad  business  !  Bad  business  !"  he  said 
in  a  quick,  abrupt  tone.  "  That  Grabb 's  a 
scoundrel.  Here 's  Broadway,  my  dear,  and 
I  must  bid  you  good-night.  Good-night, — 
good-night." 

And  he  left  the  poor  girl  at  the  corner  of 
Broadway  and  Canal  street.  He  was  lost  in 
the  crowd  ere  she  was  aware  of  his  departure. 
She  was  left  alone,  on  the  street  corner,  in 
the  midst  of  that  torrent  of  life  ;  and  it  was 
not  until  some  moments  had  elapsed  that 
she  could  fully  comprehend  her  desolate 
condition. 

"  It  was  the  last  five  dollars  I  had  in  the 
world !  What  can  I  do  !  In  the  name  of 
God,  what  can  I  do  !" 

She  looked  up  Broadway  —  it  extended 
there,  one  glittering  track  of  light. 

"Not  a  friend,  and  not  a  dollar  in  the 
world !" 

She  looked  down  Broadway — far  into  the 
distance  it  extended,  its  million  lights  over- 
arched by  a  dull  December  sky. 

"Not  a  friend  and  not  a  dollar !" 

She  turned  down  Broadway  with  languid- 
and  leaden  steps.  A  miserably  clad  and 
heart-broken  girl,  she  glided  among  the 
crowds,  which  lined  the  street,  like  a  specter 
through  the  mazes  of  a  banquet. 

Poor  girl !  Down  Broadway,  until  the 
Paik  is  passed,  and  the  huge  Astor  House 


glares  out  upon  the  darkness  from  its  hun- 
dred windows.  Down  Broadway,  until  you 
reach  the  unfinished  pile  of  Trinity  Church, 
■where  heaps  of  lumber  and  rubbish  appear 
among  white  tombstones.  Turn  from  Broad- 
way and  stride  this  narrow  street  which 
leads  to  the  dark  river :  your  home  is  there 

Back  of  Trinity  Church,  in  Greenwich 
street,  we  believe,  there  stands  on  this 
December  night  a  four  storied  edifice,  ten- 
anted, only  a  few  years  ago,  by  a  wealthy 
family.  Then  it  was  the  palace  of  a  man 
who  counted  his  wealth  by  hundreds  of 
thousands.  Now  it  is  a  palace  of  a  different 
sort ;  look  at  it,  as  from  garret  to  cellar  it 
flashes  with  light  in  every  window. 

The  cellar  is  the  home  of  ten  families. 

The  first  floor  is  occupied  as  a  beer 
"  saloon ;"  you  can  hear  men  getting  drunk 
in  three  or  four  languages,  if  you  will  only 
stand  by  the  window  for  a  moment. 

Twenty  persons  live  on  the  second  floor. 

Fifteen  make  their  home  on  the  third 
floor. 

The  fourth  floor  is  tenanted  by  nineteen 
human  beings. 

The  garret  is  divided  into  four  apartments; 
one  of  these  has  a  garret- window  to  itself, 
and  this  is  the  home  of  the  poor  girl. 

She  ascended  the  marble  staircase  which 
led  from  the  first  to  the  fourth  floor.  At 
every  step  her  ear  was  assailed  with  curses, 
drunken  shouts,  the  cries  of  children,  and  a 
thousand  other  sounds,  which,  night  and 
day  resounded  through  that  palace  of  rags 
and  wretchedness.  Feeble  and  heart-sick 
she  arrived  at  length  in  front  of  the  garret 
door,  which  ojoened  into  her  home. 

She  listened  in  the  darkness ;  all  was  still 
within. 

"  He  sleeps,"  she  murmured,  "  thank 
God  !"  and  opened  the  door.  All  was  dark 
within,  but  presently,  with  the  aid  of  a 
match,  she  lighted  a  candle,  and  the  details 
of  the  place  were  visible.  It  was  a  nook  of 
the  original  garret,  fenced  ofl"  by  a  partition 
of  rough  boards.  The  slope  of  the  roof 
formed  its  ceiling.  The  garret  window 
occupied  nearly  an  entire  side  of  the  place. 
There  was  a  mattress  on  the  floor,  in  one  cor- 
ner; a  small  pine  table  stood  beside  the  par- 
tition ;  and  the  recess  of  the  garret- window 
was  occupied  by  an  old  arm-chair. 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


53 


This  chair  was  occupied  by  a  man  whose 
body,  incased  in  a  faded  wrapper,  reminded 
you  of  a  skeleton  placed  in  a  sitting  posture. 
His  emaciated  hands  rested  on  the  arms,  and 
his  head  rested  helplessly  against  the  back 
of  the  chair.  His  hair  was  white  as  snow; 
it  was  scattered  in  flakes  about  his  forehead. 
His  face,  furrowed  in  deep  wrinkles,  was 
lividly  pale  ;  it  resembled  nothing  save  the 
face  of  a  corpse.  His  eyes,  wide  open  and 
fixed  as  if  the  hand  of  death  had  touched 
him,  were  centered  upon  the  flame  of  the 
candle,  while  a  meaningless  smile  played 
about  his  colorless  lips. 

The  girl  kissed  him  on  the  lips  and  fore- 
head, but  he  gave  no  sign  of  recognition 
save  a  faint  laugh,  which  died  on  the  air  ere 
it  was  uttered. 

For  the  poor  man,  prematurely  old  and 
reduced  to  a  mere  skeleton,  was  an  idiot. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  and  I  have  not  bread  to 
feed  him  !"  No  words  can  describe  the  tone 
and  look  with  which  the  poor  girl  uttered 
these  words. 

She  flung  aside  her  bonnet  and  shawl. 

Then  it  might  be  seen  that,  in  spite  of  her 
faded  dress,  she  was  a  very  beautiful  young 
woman  ;  not  only  beautiful  in  regularity  of 
features,  but  in  the  whiteness  of  her  shoul- 
ders, the  fullness  of  her  bust,  the  proportions 
of  her  tall  and  rounded  form.  Her  hair, 
escaping  from  the  ribbon  which  bound  it, 
streamed  freely  over  her  shoulders,  and 
caught  the  rays  of  the  light  on  every  glossy 
wave. 

She  leaned  her  forehead  upon  her  head, 
and — thought. 

Hard  she  had  tried  to  keep  a  home  for  the 
poor  Idiot,  who  sat  in  the  chair — very  hard. 
She  had  tried  her  pencil,  and  gained  bread 
for  awhile,  thus  ;  but  her  drawings  ceased  to 
command  a  price  at  the  picture  store,  and 
this  means  of  subsistence  failed  her.  She 


had  taught  music,  and  had  been  a  miserable 

dependent  upon  the  rich ;  been  insulted  by  i  scarlet  with  the  same  blush, 
their  daughters,  and  been  made  the  object '  grew  brighter  as  she  read 


the  summer ;  an  immense  treasure — Five 
Dollars. 

She  had  not  a  penny;  there  was  no  bread 
in  the  closet ;  there  was  no  fire  in  the  sheet 
iron  stove  which  stood  in  one  corner ;  her 
Idiot  Father,  her  iron  fate  were  before  her — 
harsh  and  bitter  realities. 

She  was  thinking. 

Apply  to  those  rich  relations,  who  had 
known  her  father  in  days  of  prosperity  ?  No. 
Better  death  than  that. 

She  was  thinking.  Her  forehead  on  her 
hand,  her  hair  streaming  over  her  shoulders, 
her  bosom  which  had  never  known  even  the 
thought  of  pollution,  heaving  and  swelling 
within  her  calico  gown — she  was  thinking. 

And  as  she  thought,  and  thought  her  hair 
began  to  burn,  and  her  blood  to  bound  rapidly 
in  her  veins. 

Her  face  is  shaded  by  her  hand,  and  a 
portion  of  her  hair  falls  over  that  hand  ; 
therefore  you  cannot  tell  her  thoughts  by 
the  changes  of  her  countenance. 

I  would  not  like  to  know  her  thoughts. 

For  there  is  a  point  of  misery,  at  which 
but  two  doors  of  escape  open  to  the  gaze  of 
a  beautiful  woman,  who  struggles  with  the  last 
extreme  of  poverty:  one  door  has  the  grave 
behind  it,  and  the  other,  

Yes,  there  are  some  thoughts  which  it  is 
not  good  to  write  on  paper.  It  was  in  the 
midst  of  this  current  of  dark  and  bitter 
thoughts,  that  the  eye  of  the  young  woman 
wandered  absently  to  the  faded  shawl  which 
she  had  thrown  across  the  table. 

"  What  is  this  ?  A  letter  !  Pinned  to  my 
shawl — by  whom  ?" 

It  was  indeed  a  letter,  addressed  to  her, 
and  pinned  to  her  shawl  by  an  unknown 
hand. 

She  seized  it  eagerly,  and  opened  it,  and 
read. 

Her  face,  her  neck,  and  the  glimpse  of  her 
bosom,  opening  above  her  dress,  all  became 

Still  her  eyes 


the  letter,  and 


of  the  insulting  ofi'ers  of  their  sons.    And  :  incoherent  ejaculations  passed  from  her  lips. 


forced  at  length 
Idiot  Father,  to 


by  the  condition  of  her 
remain  with  him,  in  their 


The  letter  Avas  written — so  it  said — by  the 
man  who  had  taken  her  from  the  store  on 


own  home — to  be  constantly  near  him,  day  j  Canal  street.  Its  contents  we  may  not  guess, 
and  night — she  had  sought  work  at  the  shirt  i  save  from  the  broken  words  of  the  agitated 
store  on  Canal  street,  and  been  robbed  of  the  !  sirl. 
treasure  which  she  had  accumulated  tlirough  | 


At  twelve  o'clock^  at  "the  Temple," 


64 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


wlwse  street  ami  numher  ijou  will  Jind  on  the 
inclosed  cariV  " 

And  a  card  dropped  from  tlie  letter  upon 
the  table.  She  seized  it  eagerly  and  cliu?ped 
it  as  though  it  was  so  much  gold. 

"  '  The  Temple,'  "  she  munnured  again, 
and  her  eyes  instinctively  wandered  to  the 
face  of  her  father 

Then  she  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

For  three  hours,  while  the  candle  burned 
toward  its  socket,  she  meditated  upon  the 
contents  of  that  letter. 

At  last  she  rose,  and  took  from  a  closet 
near  the  door,  a  mantilla  of  black  velvet,  the 
only  garment  which  the  pawnbroker  had 
spared.  It  was  old  and  faded ;  it  was  the 
only  relic  of  better  days.  She  resumed  her 
bonnet  and  wound  the  mantilla  about  her 
shoulders  and  kissed  her  Idiot  Father  on 
the  lips  and  brow.  He  had  fallen  into  a 
dull,  dreamless  sleep,  and  looked  like  a  dead 
man  with  his  fallen  lip  and  half-shut  eyes. 

" '  The  Temple  !' "  she  exclaimed  and  at- 
tentively perused  the  card. 

Then  extinguishing  the  candle,  she  wound 
a  coverlet  about  her  father's  form,  and  left 
him  there  alone  in  the  garret.  She  passed 
the  threshold  and  went  down  the  marble 
stairs.    God  pity  her. 

Yes,  God  pity  her  ! 

CHAPTER  IIL 


DO  THEY  ROAR 


9?> 


At  nine  o'clock,  on  the  night  of  December 
23d,  1844,  

"  Do  they  roar  ?"  said  Israel  Yorke,  pass- 
ing his  hand  through  his  gray  v\^hiskers,  as 
he  sat  at  the  head  of  a  large  table  covered 
Avith  green  baize. 

It  was  in  a  large  square  room,  on  the 
second  story  of  his  Banking  House — if  Israel's 
place  of  business  can  be  designated  by  that 
name.  The  gas-light  disclosed  the  floor 
covered  with  matting,  and  the  high  walls, 
ovei'spreac?  with  lithographs  of  unknoMTi 
cities  and  imaginary  copper-mines.  There 
were  also  three  lithographs  of  the  towns  in 
wnich  Israel's  principal  Banks  were  situated. 
There  was  Chow  Bank  and  Muddy  Run, 
and  there  in  all  its  glory  was  Terrapin  Hol- 
low. In  each  of  these  distant  towns,  located 
somewhere  in  New  Jersey  or  Pennsylvania — 


or  Heaven  only  knows  where — Israel  owned 
a  Bank,  a  live  Bank,  chartered  by  a  State 
Legislature,  and  provided  with  a  convenient 
President  and  Ca.shier.  Israel  was  a  host  of 
stockholders  in  himself.  He  had  an  office  in 
New  York  for  the  redemption  of  the  notes 
of  the  three  Banks ;  it  is  in  the  room  above 
this  office  that  we  now  behold  him. 

**  Do  they  roar  ?"  he  asked,  and  arranged 
his  spectacles  on  his  turn  up  nose,  and 
grinned  to  himself  until  his  little  black  eyes 
shone  again. 

"Do  they  roar?"  answered  the  voice  of 
Israel's  man  of  business,  who  sat  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  green  baize  table — "Just  go  to  the 
window  and  hear  'cm  !  Hark !  There  it 
goes  again.    It  sounds  like  fourth  of  July." 

Truth  to  say,  a  strange  ominous  murmur 
came  from  the  street — a  murmur  composed 
of  about  an  equal  quantity  of  curses  and 
groans. 

"There's  six  thousand  of  'em,"'  said  the 
man  of  business  ;  "  The  street  is  black  with 
'em.  And  all  sorts  o'  nasty  little  boys  go 
about  with  placards  on  which  such  words  are 
inscribed:  'Here's  an  orphan  —  me  a  tJiem 
that  was  cheated  hij  Israel  Yorke  and  his  Three 
Banks.'    Hark  !    There  it  goes  again !" 

The  man  of  business  was  a  phlegmatic  in- 
dividual of  about  fortj"  years  ;  a  dull  heavy 
face  adorned  with  green  spectacles,  and  prop- 
ped by  a  huge  black  stock  and  a  pair  of  im- 
mense shirt  collars.  Mr.  Fetch  was  indeed 
Israel's  Man  ;  he  in  some  measure  supplied 
the  place  of  the  late  lamented  Jedediah 
Buggies,  Esq.,  'whose  dignity  of  character 
and  strict  integrity,'  etc.,  etc.,  (for  the  rest, 
see  obituaries  on  Buggies  in  the  daily  pa- 
pers). 

"Fetch,  they  do  roar,"  responded  Israel. 
"  Was  there  notice  of  the  failure  in  the  af- 
ternoon papers?" 

"  Had  it  put  in  myself.  Dilated  upon  the 
robbery  which  was  committed  on  you  last 
night,  in  the  cars  ;  and  spoke  of  your  dispo- 
sition to  redeem  the  notes  of  Chow  Bank, 
Muddy  Run  and  Terrapin  Hollow,  as  soon 
as — you  could  make  it  convenient.'' 

"  Yes,  Fetch,  in  about  a  week  these  notes 
can  be  bought  for  ten  cents  on  the  dollar," 
calmly  remarked  Yorke,  "  they're  mostly  in 
the  hands  of  market  people,  mechanics,  day- 
laborers,  servant-maids,  and  those  kind  of 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


55 


people,  who  canH  afford  to  wait.  AVell, 
Fetch,  what  were  thcv  sellin'  at  to-day?" 

"  Three  shillings  on  the  dollar.  You  know 
we  only  failed  this  movninV'  answered  Fetch. 

"Yes,  yes,  about  a  week  will  do  it" —  Is- 
rael drew  forth  a  gold  pencil,  and  made  a 
calculation  ou  a  card, — In  about  a  week 
they'll  be  down  to  ten  cents  on  the  dollar. 
We  must  buy  'cm  in  quietly  at  that  rate ; 
our  friends  on  Wall  street  will  help  us,  3'ou 
know.  Well,  let's  see  how  the  i)rofit  will 
stand — there  are  in  circulation  $300,000  of 
Chow  Bank  notes — " 

"And  $150,000  of  Muddy  Run,"  inter- 
rupted Fetch. 

"And  $200,000  of  Terrapin  Hollow,"  con- 
tinued Yorke, — "Now  supposin'  that  there 
are  altogether  $500,000 — a  half  million  of 
these  notes  now  in  circulation — we  can  buy 
'eni  in  quietly  you  know,  at  ten  cents  on  the 
dollar,  for  some — some — yes,  $50,000  will 
do  it  That  will  leave  a  clear  profit  of 
$450,00^1    Not  so  bad,— eh,  Fetch?" 

"  But  you  forget  how  much  it  cost  you  to 
get  the  charters  of  these  banks — "  interrupt- 
ed Fetch.  "  The  amount  of  champagne 
that  I  myself  forwarded  to  Trenton  and  to 
Harrisburg,  would  float  a  small  brig.  Then 
there  was  some  ready  money  that  you  loaned 
to  Members  of  Legislature — put  that  down 
Mr.  Yorke." 

"We'll  say  $5000  for  champagne,  and 
$25,000  loaned  to  Members  of  Legislature 
(though  they  don't  bring  anything  near  that 
now),  why  we  have  a  total  of  $25,000  for 
expenses  imurred  in  procuring  charters.  De- 
duct that  from  $450,000  and  you  still  have 
$425,000.    A  neat  sum.  Fetch." 

"  Yes,  but  you  must  look  to  your  charac- 
ter. Y'"ou  must  come  out  of  it  with  flyin' 
colors.  After  nearly  all  the  notes  have  been 
bought  in,  by  ourselves  or  our  agents,  we 
must  announce  that  having  recovered  from 
our  late  reverses,  wt  are  now  prepared  to  re- 
deem all  our  notes,  dollar  for  dollar." 

"And  Fetch,  if  we  manage  it  right, 
there'll  be  only  $10,000  worth  left  in  circu- 
lation, at  the  time  we  make  the  announce- 
ment. That  will  take  $10,000  from  our  to- 
tal of  $425,000,  leavin''  us  still  the  sum  of 
$415,000.    A  pretty  sum.  Fetch. 

"  You  may  as  well  strike  off  that  $15,000 
for  extra  expenses, — paragraphs  in  some  of 


the  newspapers, — grand  juries,  and  other 
little  incidents  of  that  kind.  0,  you'll  come 
out  of  it  with  character.''^ 

"  Ghoul  of  the  Blerze  will  assail  me,  eh  ?" 
said  Israel,  fidgeting  in  his  chair :  "  He'll 
talk  o'  nothin'  else  than  Chow  Bank,  Muddy 
Hun  and  Terrapin  Hollow,  for  months  to 
come, — eh.  Fetch  ?" 

"For  years,  for  years,"  responded  Fetch, 
"  It  will  be  nuts  for  Ghoul." 

"  And  that  cursed  affair  last  night !  "  con- 
tinued Yorke,  as  though  thinking  aloud, 
"Seventy-one  thousand  gone  at  one  slap." 

Fetch  looked  funnily  at  his  principal  from 
beneath  his  gold  spectacles  :  "  No  ?  It  was 
real  then  ?  I  thought — " 

Mr.  I'orke  abruptly  consigned  the  thoughts 
of  Mr.  Fetch  to  a  personage  who  shall  be 
nameless,  and  then  continued  : 

It  was  rea.l^ — a  hona  fide  robbery.  Seventy- 
one  thousand  at  a  slap  !  By-the-bye,  Fetch, 
has  Blossom  been  here  to-night — Blossom 
the  police  officer  ?" 

"  Couldn't  get  in  ;  too  much  of  a  crowd  in 
the  street." 

"I  did  not  intend  him  to  come  by  the 
front  door.  He  was  to  come  up  the  back 
way, —  about  this  hour  —  he  gave  me  some 
hope  this  afternoon.  Uiat  was  an  mifortunate 
affair  last  night !" 

"  How  they  roar !  Listen  !"  said  Fetch, 
bending  himself  into  a  listening  attitude. 

And  again  that  ominous  sound  came  from 
the  street  without,  —  the  combined  groans 
and  curses  of  six  thousand  human  beings. 

"  Like  buffaloes  !"  quietly  remarked  Mr. 
Yorke. 

"  Like  demons  !"  added  Mr.  Fetch.  "Hear 
'em." 

"  Was  there  much  fuss  to-day,  when  w^e 
suspended.  Fetch  ?" 

"  Quantities  of  market  people,  mechanics, 
widows  and  servant  maids,"  said  the  man  of 
business.  "I  should  think  you'd  stood  a 
pretty  good  chance  of  being  torn  to  pieces, 
if  you'd  been  visible.  Had  this  happened 
south,  you'd  have  been  tarred  and  feathered. 
Here  you'd  only  be  tore  to  pieces." 

A  step  was  heard  in  the  back  part  of  the 
room,  and  in  a  moment  Blossom,  in  his 
pictorial  face  and  bear-skin  over-coat,  ap- 
peared upon  the  scene. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  your  head?" 


66 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


asked  Mr.  Fetch, — "  Is  that  a  handkerchief 
or  a  towel  ?"  lie  pointed  to  something  like 
a  turban,  which  Poke-Berry  Blossom  wore 
under  his  glossy  hat. 

Blossom  sunk  sullenly  into  a  chair,  with- 
out a  Avord. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  exclaimed  Yorke, 
"  Have  you — " 

"Suppose  you  had  sixteen  inches  taken 
out  of  yer  skull,"  responded  Blossom  in  a 
sullen  tone,  "You'd  know  what  was  the 
matter.  Thunder!"  he  added,  "this  is  a 
rum  world  !" 

"Did  you — "  again  began  Yorke,  brushing 
his  gray  whiskers  and  fidgeting  in  his 
chair. 

"  Yes  I  did.  I  tracked  'em  to  a  groggery 
up  town  airly  this  evenin'.  I  had  'em  all 
alone,  to  myself,  up  stairs.  I  caught  the 
young  *un  examinin'  the  valise — I  seed  the 
dimes  with  my  own  eyes.    I — " 

"You  an'ested  them  ?"  gasped  Yorke. 

"  How  could  I,  when  I  aint  a  real  police, 
and  hadn't  any  warrant  ?  I  did  grapple 
with  'em  ;  but  the  young  'un  got  out  on  the 
roof  with  the  valise,  and  I  was  left  to 
manage  the  old  'un  as  best  I  could.  I  tried 
to  make  him  b'lieve  that  I  had  a  detachment 
down  stairs,  but  he  gi'n  me  a  lick  over  the 
topknot  that  made  me  see  Fourth  of  July, 
I  tell  you.  There  I  laid,  I  don't  know  how 
long.  When  I  got  my  senses,  they  was 
gone." 

"But  3'ou  pursued  them?"  asked  Yorke, 
with  a  nervoub  start. 

"  With  a  hole  in  my  head  big  enough  to 
put  a  market-basket  in  ?"  responded  Blos- 
som, with  a  pitying  smile,  "what  do  yoM 
think  I'm  made  of  ?  Do  you  think  I'm  a 
Japan  mermaid  or  an  Egyptian  mummy  ?" 

It  will  be  perceived  that  Mr.  Blossom  said 
nothing  about  the  house  which  stood  next 
to  the  Yellow  Mug  ;  he  did  not  even 
mention  the  latter  place  by  name.  Nor  did 
he  relate  how  he  pursued  Nameless  into  this 
house,  and  how  after  nn  unsuccessful  pursuit, 
he  returned  into  the  garret  of  the  Mug, 
where  Ninety  One,  (who  for  a  moment  or 
two  had  been  hiding  upon  the  roof,)  grappled 
with  him,  and  laid  him  senseless  by  a  well 
])lanted  blow.  Upon  these  topics  Mr.  Blos- 
Hom  maintained  a  mysterious  silence.  His 
reasons  for  this  course  may  hereafter  appear. 


"  And  so  you've  given  up  the  affair  ?"  said 
Yorke,  sinking  back  into  his  chair. 

Now  the  truth  is,  that  Blossom,  chafed  by 
his  inquiries  and  mortified  at  his  defeat,  was 
cogitating  an  important  matter  to  himself — 
"  Can  I  make  anything  by  givin'  Israel  into 
the  hands  of  the  mob  ?  I  might  lead  'em 
up  the  back  stairs.  Lord  !  how  they'd  make 
the  fur  fly !  But  who'd  2^ay  riie  ?  The 
italicized  query  troubled  Blossom  and  made 
him  thoughtful. 

"And  so  the  seventy  thousand  's  clean 
gone,"  exclaimed  Fetch,  in  a  mournful  tone  : 
"  It  makes  one  melancholy  to  think  of  it." 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Yorke,  for  this  intru- 
sion," said  a  bland  voice,  "but  I  have  fol- 
lowed Mr.  Blosso  ;  to  this  room.  I  caught 
sight  of  him  a  fcAv  mom«nts  ago  as  he  left 
Broadway,  and  tried  to  speak  to  him  as  he 
pushed  through  the  crowd  in  front  of  your 
door,  but  in  vain.  So  being  exceedingly 
anxious  to  see  him,  I  was  forced  to  follow 
him  uj)  stairs,  into  your  room," 

"  Colonel  Tarleton  !"  ejaculated  Yorke. 

"  The  handsom'  Curnel  1"  chorussed  Blos- 
som. 

It  was  indeed  the  handsome  Colonel,  who 
wdth  his  w  hite  coat  buttoned  tightly  over  his 
chest  and  around  his  waist,  stood  smiling 
and  bowing  behind  the  chair  of  Berry 
Blossom. 

"You  did  not  tell  any  one  of  the  back 
door,"  cried  Yorke, — "If  you  did — " 

"  Why  then,  (you  were  about  to  remark  I 
believe,)  we  should  have  a  great  many  more 
persons  in  the  room,  than  it  would  be 
pleasant  for  you  to  see,  just  now. 

The  Colonel  made  one  of  his  most  ele- 
gant bows  as  he  made  this  remark.  Mr. 
Yorke  bit  his  nails  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Mr.  Blossom,  a  Avord  with  you."  The 
Colonel  took  the  police  officer  by  the  arm 
and  led  him  far  back  into  that  part  of  the 
room  most  remote  from  the  table. 

"  What's  up,  Mister  ?"  asked  Blossom, 
arranging  his  turban. 

As  they  stood  there,  in  the  gloom  which 
pervaded  that  part  of  the  room,  the  Colonel 
answered  him  with  a  low  and  significant 
whisper  : 

"Do  you  remember  that  old  ruffian  who 
was  charged  last  night  in  the  cars  with  — " 
"  You  mean  old  Ninety-One,  as  ho  calls 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


57 


hisself,"  interrupted  Blo.ssom  —  "Well,  I 
guess  I  do." 

"Very  good,"  continued  the  Colonel. — 
"Now  suppose  this  ruftian  had  concealed 
himself  in  the  house  of  a  wealthy  man,  with 
the  purpose  of  committing  a  rohhcry  this 
very  night !" 

Blossom  was  all  ears. 

"Well,  well, —  drive  ahead.  Suppose, — 
suppose," — he  said  impatiently. 

"  Not  so  fast.  Suppose,  further,  that  a 
gentleman  who  had  overheard  this  villain 
plotting  this  purposed  crime,  was  to  give  you 
full  information  in  regard  to  the  affair,  could 
you,  —  could  you,  —  when  called  upon  to 
give  evidence  before  the  court,  forget  the 
name  of  this  gentleman 

"  rd  know  no  more  of  him  than  an  un- 
born baby,"  eagerly  Avhispered  Blossom. 

"Hold  a  moment.  This  gentleman  over- 
hears the  plot,  in  the  room  of  a  certain  house, 
not  used  as  a  church,  precisely.  The  gentle- 
man does  not  wish  to  be  known  as  a  visitor 
to  that  house, —  you  comprehend?  But  in 
tJuit  Jiouse,  he  happens  to  hear  the  ruffian  and 
his  young  comrade  planning  this  robbery. 
Himself  unseen,  he  hears  their  whole  con- 
versation. He  finds  out  that  they  intend  to 
enter  the  house  where  the  robbery  is  to  take 
place,  by  a  false  key  and  a  back  stairway. 
Now—" 

"You  want  to  know,  in  straight-for'ard 
talk,"  interrupted  Blossom,  "  whether,  when 
the  case  comes  to  trial,  I  could  remember 
having  overheard  the  convict  and  the  young 
'un  mesself?  There's  my  hand  on  it, 
Curnel.  Just  set  me  on  the  track,  and  you'll 
find  that  I'll  never  say  one  word  about  you. 
Beside,  I  was  arter  these  two  covies  this 
very  night,  —  I  seed  'em  with  my  own  eyes, 
in  the  garret  of  the  Yellow  Mug." 

"  Y'ou  did  !"  cried  the  Colonel,  with  an  ac- 
cent of  undisguised  satisfaction.  "Then 
possibly  you  may  remember  that  you  over- 
heard them  planning  this  burglary,  as  you  lis- 
tened behind  the  garret  door  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  can,"  replied  Blossom,  "I 
remember  it  quite  plain.  Jist  tell  me  the 
number  of  the  house  that  is  to  be  robbed, 
and  I'll  show  you  fireworks." 

The  Colonel's  face  was  agitated  by  a 
smile  of  infernal  delight.    Leaving  Blossom 


for  a  moment,  he  paced  the  floor,  with  his 
finger  to  his  lip. 

"  Pop  and  Pill  will  leave  town  to-mor- 
row," he  muttered  to  himself,  "and  they'll 
keep  out  of  the  way  until  the  storm  blows 
over.  Thi^  fellow  will  go  to  the  house  of 
Sowers,  inform  him  of  the  robbery,  a  search 
will  be  made,  and  Ninety-one  discovered  in 
one  room,  and  the  corpse  of  Evelyn  in  the 
other.  Just  at  that  hour  I'll  happen  to  bo 
passing  by,  and  in  the  confusion  I'll  try  to 
secure  this  youthful  secretary  of  Old  Sow- 
ers. I  shall  want  him  for  the  twenty-fifth 
of  December.  As  for  the  other,  why, 
Frank  must  take  care  of  him.  Shall  Nine- 
ty-one come  to  a  hint  of  the  murder?"  — 
the  Colonel  paused  and  struck  his  forehead. 
"  Head,  you  have  never  failed  me,  and  will 
not  fail  me  now  ! " 

He  turned  to  Blossom,  and  in  low  whis- 
pers the  twain  arranged  all  the  details  of  the 
affair.  They  conversed  together  there  in  the 
gloom  until  they  perfectly  understood  each 
other,  Blossom  turning  now  and  then  to  in- 
dulge in  a  quiet  laugh,  and  the  Colonel's 
dark  eyes  flashing  with  earnestness,  and  may 
be,  with  the  hope  of  gratified  revenge.  At 
length  they  shook  hands,  and  the  Colonel 
approached  the  table : 

"Mr.  Yorke,  I  have  the  honor  to  wish 
you  a  very  good  evening,"  said  the  Colonel, 
and  after  a  polite  bow,  he  departed. 

"  I  leave  him  with  his  serenaders,"  he 
muttered  as  he  disappeared.  "  This  murder 
off  my  hands,  and  the  private  secretary  in 
my  power,  I  think  I  will  hold  the  trump 
card  on  the  Twenty-fifth  of  December  ! " 

With  this  muttered  exclamation  he  went 
down  the  back  stairway. 

"  Yorke,  my  genius!"  cried  Blossom,  clap- 
ping the  financier  on  the  back,  "if  I  dont 
have  them  $71,000  dollars  before  twenty- 
four  hours,  3^ou  may  call  me  —  you  may  call 
me,  —  most  anything  you  please.  By-the- 
bye,  did  you  hear  that  howl  ?  Good-night, 
i  l''orke."  And  he  went  down  the  back  stair- 
way. 

The  financier,  coughing  for  breath,  (for 
the  hand  of  Blossom  had  been  somewhat 
emphatic),  fixed  his  gold  specs,  and  brushed 
his  gray  whiskers,  and  turning  to  Mr.  Fetch, 
said  gayly, 


58 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


"He  looks  as  if  lie  was  on  the  right 
track;  dont  he,  Fetch?" 

Fetch  said  he  did  ;  and  presently  he  also 
retired  down  the  back  stairway,  promising  to 
see  his  Principal  at  an  early  hour  on  the 
morrow.  "  How  they  do  roar  !  "  he  ejacu- 
lated, as  he  disappeared. 

Yorke  was  alone.  He  shifted  and  twisted 
uneasily  in  his  chair.  His  little  black  eyes 
shone  with  peculiar  luster.  He  sat  for  a 
long  time  buried  in  thought,  and  at  last 
gave  utterance  to  these  words  : 

"  I  think  I'd  better  retire  until  the  storm 
,  blows  over,  leaving  Fetch  to  bring  in  my 
notes,  and  manage  affairs.  To  what  part  of 
the  world  shall  I  go  ?  Well,  —  w-e-11 ! — 
Havana,  yes,  that's  the  word,  Havana  !  But 
first  I  must  see  the  result  of  this  Van  Huy- 
den  matter  on  the  Twenty-fifth,  and  provide 
myself  with  a  conqjanion  —  a  pleasant  ccnn- 
panion  to  cheer  me  in  my  loneliness  at  Ha- 
vana. Ah ! "  the  man  of  money  actually 
breathed  an  amorous  sigh,  —  "  twelve  to-night^ 
—  THE  Temple  1  —  that's  the  word." 

And  in  the  street  without,  black  with 
heads,  there  were  at  least  three  thousand 
people  who  would  have  cut  the  throat  of  Is- 
rael, had  they  once  laid  hands  upon  him. 

"  The  Temple  ! "  he  again  ejaculated,  and 
sinking  back  in  his  chair,  he  inserted  his 
thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  vest,  and 
resigned  himself  to  a  pleasant  dream. 

Leaving  Israel  Yorke  for  a  little  while, 
we  will  trace  the  movements,  and  listen  to 
the  words  of  a  personage  of  far  different 
character. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
the  seven  vaults. 
About  the  hour  of  nine  o'clock,  on  the 
23d  of  December,  a  gentleman,  wrapped  in 
the  folds  of  a  Spanish  mantle,  passed  along 
Broadway,  on  his  way  to  the  Astor  House. 
Through  the  glare  and  glitter,  the  uproar 
and  the  motion  of  that  thronged  pathway,  he 
passed  rapidly  along,  his  entire  appearance 
and  manner  distinguishing  him  from  the 
crowd.  As  he  came  into  the  glare  of  the 
brilliantly-lighted  windows,  his  face  and  fea- 
tures, disclosed  but  for  an  instant,  beneath 
his  broad  sombrero,  made  an  impression 


upon  those  who  beheld  them,  which  they 
did  not  soon  forget.  That  face,  unnat- 
urally pale,  was  lighted  by  eyes  that  shone 
with  incessant  luster  ;  and  its  almost  death- 
like pallor  was  in  strong  contrast  with  his 
moustache,  his  beard  and  hair,  all  of  intense 
bhickness.  His  dark  hair,  tossed  by  the 
winter  winds,  fell  in  wavy  tresses  to  the  col- 
lar of  his  cloak.  His  movements  were  quick 
and  impetuous,  and  his  stealthy  gait,  in 
some  respects,  reminded  you  of  the  Indian. 
Altogether,  in  a  crowd  of  a  thousand  you 
would  have  singled  him  out  as  a  remarkable 
man,  —  one  of  those  whose  faces  confront 
you  at  rare  intervals,  in  the  church,  the 
street,  in  the  railroad- car,  on  ship-board,  and 
who  at  first  sight  elicit  the  involuntary  ejac- 
ulation, "  That  man's  history  I  would  like  to 
know  !" 

Arrived  at  the  Astor  House  he  registered 
his  name,  Gaspar  Manuel,  Havana. 

He  had  just  landed  from  the  Havana 
steamer. 

As  he  wrote  his  name  on  the  Hotel  book, 
he  uncovered  his  head,  and  —  by  the  gas 
light  which  shone  fully  on  him,  —  it  might 
be  seen  that  his  dark  hair,  which  fell  to  his 
shoulders,  was  streaked  with  threads  of 
silver.  The  vivid  brightness  of  his  eyes, 
the  deathlike  pallor  of  his  face,  became 
more  perceptible  in  the  strong  light  ;  and 
when  he  threw  his  cloak  aside,  you  beheld  a 
slender  frame,  slightly  bent  in  the  shoulders, 
clad  in  a  dark  frock  coat,  which,  single 
breasted,  and  with  a  strait  collar,  reached  to 
the  knees. 

His  face  seemed  to  indicate  the  traveler 
who  has  journeyed  in  many  lands,  seen  all 
phases  of  life,  thought  much,  suffered  deeply, 
and  at  times  grown  sick  of  all  that  life  can 
inflict  or  bestow  ;  his  attire  indicated  a  mem- 
ber of  some  religious  organization,  per- 
chance a  member  of  that  society  founded 
by  Loyola,  which  has  sometimes  honored, 
but  oftener  blasphemed,  the  name  of  Jesus. 
Directing  his  trunks,  —  there  were  some 
three  or  four,  huge  in  size,  and  strangely 
strapped  and  banded  —  to  be  sent  to  his 
room.  Gaspar  Manuel  resumed  his  cloak  and 
sombrero,  and  left  the  hall  of  the  hotel. 

It  was  an  hour  before  he  appeared  again. 
As  he  emerged  from  one  of  the  corridors 
into  the  light  of  the  hall,  you  would  have 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


59 


scarcely  recognized  the  man.  In  place  of 
his  Jesuit-lilvo  attire,  he  wore  a  fcishionably 
made  black  dress  coat,  a  snow-white  vest, 
black  pants  and  neatly-fltting  boots^  There 
was  a  diamond  in  the  center  of  his  black 
scarf,  and  a  mass}'-  gold  chain  across  his  vest. 
And  a  diamond  even  more  dazzling  than 
that  Avhich  shone  upon  his  scarf,  sparkled 
from  the  little  finger  of  his  left-hand. 

But  the  change  in  his  attire  only  made  that 
face,  framed  in  hair  and  beard,  black  as  jet, 
seem  more  lividly  pale.  It  -vvas  a  strange 
faded  face, — you  would  have  given  the  w^orld 
to  have  known  the  meaning  of  that  thought 
which  imparted  its  incessant  fire  to  his  eyes. 

Winding  his  cloak  about  his  slender  frame, 
and  placing  his  sombrero  upon  his  dark  hair, 
he  left  the  hotel.  Passing  with  his  quick 
active  step  along  Broadway,  he  turned  to  the 
East  river,  and  soon  entered  a  silent  and  de- 
serted neighboring  house.  Silent  and  deser- 
ted, because  it  stands  in  the  center  of  a 
haunt  of  trade,  which  in  the  day-time,  mad 
with  the  fever  of  traffic,  was  at  night  as 
silent  and  deserted  as  a  desert  or  a  tomb. 

He  paused  before  an  ancient  dAvelling- 
house,  which,  wedged  in  between  huge  ware- 
houses, looked  strangely  out  of  place,  in  that 
domain  of  mammon.  Twenty-one  years  be- 
fore,that  dwelling-house  had  stood  in  the  very 
center  of  the  fashionable  quarter  of  the  city. 
Now  the  aristocratic  mansions  which  once 
lined  the  street  had  disappeared  ;  and  it  was 
left  alone,  amid  the  lofty  walls  and  closed 
windows  of  the  warehouses  which  bounded 
it  on  either  hand,  and  gloomily  confronted  it 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the  narrow  street. 

It  was  a  double  mansion  —  the  hall  door 
in  the  center  —  ranges  of  apartments  on  ei- 
ther side.  Its  brick  front,  varied  by  marble 
over  the  windows,  bore  the  marks  of  time. 
And  the  wide  marble  steps,  which  led  from 
the  pavement  to  the  hall  door  —  marble 
steps  once  white  as  snow  —  could  scarcely  be 
distinguished  from  the  brown  sandstone  of 
the  pavement.  In  place  of  a  bell,  there  was 
an  unsightly-looking  knocker,  in  the  center 
of  the  massive  door ;  and  its  roof,  crowned 
with  old  fashioned  dormer-wundows,  and 
heavy  along  the  edges  with  cumbrous  wood- 
work, presented  a  strange  contrast  to  the 
monotonous  flat  roofs  of  the  warehouses  on 
either  side. 


Altogether,  that  old-fashioned  dwelling 
looked  as  much  out  of  place  in  that  silent 
street  of  trade,  as  a  person  attired  in  the  cos- 
Itume  of  the  Revolution,  —  powdered  wig, 
I  ruffled  shirt,  wide  skirted  coat,  breeches  and 
I  knee-buckles,  —  would  look,  surrounded  by 
gentlemen  attired  in  the  business-like  and 
practical  costume  of  the  present  day.  And 
while  the  monotonous  edifices  on  cither  side, 
only  spoke  of  Trade  —  the  Rate  of  Ex- 
change —  the  price  of  Dry  Goods,  —  the  old 
dwelling-house  had  something  about  it 
which  breathed  of  the  associations  of  Home. 
There  had  been  marriages  in  that  house,  and 
deaths  :  children  had  first  seen  the  light 
within  its  walls,  and  coffins,  containing  the 
remains  of  the  fondly  loved,  had  emerged 
from  its  wide  hall  door  :  dramas  of  every- 
day life  had  been  enacted  there  :  and  there, 
perchance,  had  also  been  enacted  one  of 
those  tragedies  of  every-day  life  which  dif- 
fer so  widely  from  the  tragedies  of  fiction, 
in  their  horrible  truth. 

There  was  a  story  about  the  old  dwelling 
which,  as  you  passed  it  in  the  day-time, 
when  it  stood  silent  and  deserted,  while  all 
around  was  deafening  uproar,  made  your  heart 
dilate  with  involuntary  curiosity  to  know 
the  history  of  the  ancient  fabric,  and  the 
history  of  those  who  had  lived  and  died 
within  its  walls. 

Gaspar  Manuel   ascended  the  marble 
steps,  and  with  the  knocker  sounded  an 
alarm,  which  echoing  sullenly  through  the 
!  lofty  hall,  was  shortly  answered  by  the  open- 
1  ing  of  the  door. 

!  In  the  light  which  flashed  upon  the  pallid 
visage  of  Gaspar  Manuel,  appeared  an  aged 
servant,  clad  in  gray  livery  faced  with  black 
velvet, 

"  Take  these  letters  to  your  master,  and 
tell  him  that  I  am  come,"  said  Gaspar  in  a 
prompt  and  decided  tone,  marked,  although 
but  slightly,  with  a  foreign  accent.  He 
handed  a  package  to  the  servant  as  he 
spoke. 

"  But  how  do  you  know  that  my  master  is 
at  home  ?"  —  The  servant  shaded  his  eyes 
with  his  withered  hand,  and  gazed  hesi- 
tatingly into  that  strange  countenance,  so 
lividly  pale,  with  eyes  unnaturally  bright 
and  masses  of  waving  hair,  black  as  jet. 

"  Ezekiel  Bogart  lives  here,  does  he  not  ?'* 


60 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


**  That  is  my  master's  name." 

"Take  these  letters  to  him  then  at  once, 
and  tell  him  I  am  waiting." 

Perchance  the  soft  and  musical  intonations 
of  the  stranger's  voice  had  its  effect  upon 
the  servant,  for  he  replied,  "  Come  in,  sir," 
and  led  the  way  into  the  spacious  hall, 
which  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  hanging  lamp 
of  an  antique  pattern. 

"  Step  in  there,  sir,  and  presently  I  will 
bring  you  an  answer." 

The  aged  servant  opened  a  door  on  the 
left  side  of  the  hall  and  Gaspar  Manuel 
entered  a  square  apartment,  which  had 
evidently  formed  a  part  of  a  larger  room. 
The  walls  were  panneled  witli  oak ;  a 
cheerful  wood  lire  burned  in  the  old-fashion- 
ed arch  ;  an  oaken  table,  without  covering  of 
any  sort,  stood  in  the  center;  and  oaken 
benches  were  placed  along  the  walls.  Taking 
the  old  chair, — it  stood  by  the  table, — Gas- 
par  Manuel,  by  the  light  of  the  wax  candle 
on  the  table,  discovered  that  the  room  was 
already  occupied  by  some  twenty  or  thirty 
persons,  who  sat  upon  the  oak  benches,  as 
silent  as  though  they  had  been  carved  there. 
Persons  of  all  classes,  ages,  and  with  every 
variety  of  visage  and  almost  every  contrast 
of  apparel.  There  was  the  sleek  dandy  of 
Broadway ;  there  the  narrow-faced  vulture 
of  Wall  street ;  there  some  whose  decayed 
attire  reminded  you  either  of  poets  out  of 
favor  with  the  Magazines,  or  of  police  offi- 
cers out  of  office  :  one  whose  half  Jesuit 
attire  brought  to  mind  a  Puseyite  clergyman  ; 
and  one  or  two  whose  self-complacent  vis- 
ages reminded  one  of  a  third-rate  lawyer,  who 
had  just  received  his  first  fee  ;  in  a  word, 
types  of  the  varied  and  contrasted  life  which 
creeps  or  throbs  Avithin  the  confines  of  the 
large  city.  Among  the  crowd,  were  several 
whose  rotund  corporations  and  evident  dis- 
position to  shake  hands  wdth  themselves, 
indicated  the  staid  man  of  business,  whose 
capital  is  firm  in  its  foundation,  and  duly 
recognized  in  the  solemn  archives  of  the 
Bank.  A  man  of  gray  hairs,  clad  in  rags, 
sat  in  a  corner  by  himself ;  there  was  a  wo- 
man with  a  vail  over  her  face  ;  a  boy  with 
half  developed  form,  and  lip  innocent  of 
hair  :  it  was,  altogether,  a  singular  gathering. 

The  dead  silence  which  prevailed  was 
most  remarkable.    Not  a  word  was  said. 


Not  one  of  those  persons  seemed  to  be 
aware  of  the  existence  of  the  others.  As 
motionless  as  the  oak  benches  on  which  they 
sat,  they  were  waiting  to  see  Ezekiel  Bogart, 
and  this  at  the  unusual  hour  of  ten  at  night. 

Who  was  Ezekiel  Bogart?  This  was  a 
question  often  asked,  but  which  the  denizens 
of  Wall  street  found  hard  to  answer.  He 
was  not  a  merchant,  nor  a  banker,  nor  a  law- 
yer, nor  a  gentleman  of  leisure,  although  in 
some  respects  he  seemed  a  combination  of 
all. 

He  occupied  the  old-fashioned  dwelling ; 
was  seen  at  all  sorts  of  i)laces  at  all  hours ; 
and  was  visited  by  all  sorts  of  people  at 
seasons  most  unusual.  Thus  much  at  least 
was  certain.  But  what  he  was  precisely, 
what  he  exactly  followed,  what  the  sum  of 
his  wealth,  and  who  were  his  relations, — 
these  Avere  questions  shadowed  in  a  great 
deal  more  mystery  than  the  reasons  which 
induce  a  Washington  Minister  of  State  to 
sanction  a  worn-out  claim,  of  Avhich  he  is  at 
once  the  judge,  hiAvyer  and  (under  the  rose) 
sole  proprietor. 

The  transactions  of  Ezekiel  Bogart  Avere 
quite  extensive  :  they  involved  much  money 
and  ramified  through  all  the  arteries  of  the 
great  social  Avorld  of  Ncav  York.  But  the 
exact  nature  of  these  transactions  ?  All  was 
doubt, — no  one  could  tell. 

So  much  did  the  mystery  of  Mr.  Bogart's 
career  puzzle  the  knoAving  ones  of  Wall 
street,  that  one  gentleman  of  the  Green 
Board  AA-ent  quite  crazy  on  the  subject, — 
after  the  fourth  bottle  of  champagne — and 
off"ered  to  bet  Erie  Rail-road  stock  against 
NeAv  Jersey  copper  stock,  that  no  one  could 
proA'e  that  Bogart  had  ever  been  born. 

''Who  IS  IJzeh'el  Bogart  ?" 

No  doubt  every  one  of  the  persons  here 
assembled,  in  the  oak  j)anneled  room,  can 
return  some  sort  of  ansAver  to  this  question  ; 
but  Avill  not  their  ansAvers  contradict  each 
other,  and  render  Ezekiel  more  mythical 
than  ever  ? 

"  Sir,  this  Avay,"  said  the  aged  servant, 
opening  the  door  and  beckoning  to  Gaspar 
Manuel. 

Gaspar  folloAved  the  old  man,  and  leaving 
the  room,  ascended  the  oaken  staircase, 
Avhoso  banisters  Avere  fashioned  of  solid 
mahogany. 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


On  the  second  floor  he  opened  a  door, — 
"In  there,  sir,"  and  crossing  the  threshold, 
Gaspar  Manuel  found  himself  in  the  pre- 
sence of  Ezekiel  Bogart. 

It  was  a  square  apartment,  lined  with 
shelves  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor,  and 
illumined  by  a  lamp,  which  hanging  from 
the  ceiling,  shed  but  a  faint  and  mysterious 
light  through  the  place.  In  the  center  was 
a  large  square  table,  whose  green  baize  sur- 
face was  half  concealed  by  folded  packages, 
opened  letters,  and  huge  volumes,  bound  in 
dingy  buff.  Without  Avindows,  and  warmed 
by  heated  air,  this  room  was  completely  fire- 
proof—  for  the  contents  of  those  shelves 
were  too  precious  to  be  exposed  to  the 
slightest  chance  of  destruction. 

In  an  arm-chair,  covered  with  red  morocco, 
and  placed  directly  beneath  the  light,  sat 
Ezekiel  Bogart ;  a  man  whom  we  may  as 
well  examine  attentively,  for  we  shall  not 
soon  see  his  like  again.  His  form  bent  in 
the  shoulders,  yet  displaying  marks  of  mus- 
cular power,  was  clad  in  a  loose  wrapper  of 
dark  cloth,  with  wide  sleeves,  lined  with 
red.  A  dark  skull-cap  covered  the  crown 
of  his  head  ;  and  a  huge  green  shade,  evi- 
dently worn  to  protect  his  eyes  from  the 
light,  completely  concealed  his  eyes  and 
nose,  and  threw  its  shadow  over  his  mouth 
and  chin,  A  white  cravat,  wound  about  his 
throat  in  voluminous  folds,  half  concealed 
his  chin  ;  and  his  right  hand  —  sinewy,  yet 
colorless  as  the  hand  of  a  corpse  —  Avhich 
was  relieved  by  the  crimson  lining  of  the 
large  sleeve — was  laid  upon  an  open  letter. 

Gaspar  Manuel  seated  himself  in  a  chair 
opposite  this  singular  figure,  and  observed 
him  attentively  without  uttering  a  word. 
And  Ezekiel  Bogart,  whose  eyes  were  pro- 
tected by  the  huge  green  shade,  seemed  for 
a  moment  to  study  with  some  earnestness, 
the  pallid  face  of  Gaspar  Manuel. 

"  My  name  is  Ezekiel  Bogart,"  he  spoke 
in  a  voice  so  low  as  to  be  scarcely  audible, — 
"and  I  am  the  General  Agent  of  Martin 
Fulmer," 

He  paused  as  if  awaiting  a  reply  from 
Gaspar  Manuel,  but  Gaspar  Manuel  did  not 
utter  a  word, 

"  You  come  highly  recommended  by  Mr. 
John  Grubb,  who  is  Mr,  Fulmer's  agent  on 
the  Pacific  coast,"  continued  EzekieL  "He 


especially  commends  you  to  my  kindness 
and  attention,  in  the  letter  which  I  hold  in 
my  hand,  lie  desires  me  to  procure  you  an 
early  interview  with  my  principal,  Dr.  Martin 
Fulmer.  He  also  states  that  you  have  im- 
portant information  in  your  possession,  in 
regard  to  certain  lands  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
Jesuit  Mission  of  San  Luis,  near  the  Pacific 
coast, — lands  purchased  some  years  ago,  from 
the  Mexican  government,  by  Dr.  Martin 
Fulmer,  Now,  in  the  absence  of  the  Doctor, 
I  will  be  most  happy  to  converse  with  you 
on  the  subject" — 

"And  I  Avill  be  happy  to  converse  on  the 
subject,"  exclaimed  Gaspar,  in  his  low  voice 
and  with  a  slight  but  significant  smile,  "but 
first  I  must  see  Dr,  Martin  Fulmer." 

Ezekiel  gave  a  slight  start — 

"  But  you  may  not  be  able  to  see  Dr.  Mar- 
tin Fulmer  for  some  days,"  he  said.  "  His 
movements  are  uncertain  ;  it  is  at  times  very 
difficult  to  procure  an  interview  with  him," 

"  I  must  see  him,"  replied  Gaspar  Manuel 
in  a  decided  voice,  "and  before  the  Twenty- 
Fifth  of  December." 

Again  Ezekiel  started  : 

"  Soh  !  He  knows  of  the  Twenty-Fifth  !" 
he  muttered.  After  a  moment's  hesitation 
he  said  aloud  :  "  This  land  which  the  Doc- 
tor bought  from  the  Mexican  government, 
and  which  he  sent  John  Grubb  to  overlook, 
is  fertile,  is  it  not  ?" 

Gaspar  Manuel  answered  in  a  low  voice, 
whose  faintest  tones  were  marked  with  a 
clear  and  impressive  emphasis  : 

"  The  deserted  mission  house  of  San  Luis 
stands  in  the  center  of  a  pleasant  valley,  en- 
circled by  fertile  hills.  Its  walls  of  inter- 
mingled wood  and  stone  are  almost  buried 
from  view  by  the  ever-green  foliage  of  the 
massive  trees  which  surround  it.  Once 
merry  with  the  hum  of  busy  labor,  and 
echoing  with  the  voice  of  prayer  and  praise, 
it  is  now  silent  as  a  tomb.  Its  vineyards  and 
its  orchards  are  gone  to  decay, — orchards 
rich  with  the  olive  and  the  apple,  the  pome- 
granate and  the  orange,  stand  neglected  and 
forsaken,  under  an  atmosphere  as  calm,  a 
climate  as  delicious  as  southern  Italy,  And 
the  hills  and  fields,  which  once  produced  the 
plantain  and  banana,  cocoanut,  indigo  ant? 
sugar-cane  —  which  once  resounded  with 
the  voices  of  hundreds  of  Indian  laborers, 


63 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


who  yielded  to  the  rule  of  the  Jesuit  Fa- 
thers— are  now  as  sad  and  silent  as  a  desert. 
And  yet  a  happier  sight  you  cannot  conceive 
than  the  valley  of  the  San  Luis,  in  the  lap 
of  "which  stands  the  deserted  mission- liouse. 
It  is  watered  by  two  rivulets,  which,  flowing 
from  the  gorges  of  distant  hills,  join  near  the 
mission-house,  into  a  broad  and  tranquil 
river,  whose  shores  are  always  bright  with 
the  verdure  of  spring.  The  valle}'  is  sur- 
rounded, as  I  have  said,  by  a  range  of  rolling 
hills,  which  formerly  yielded,  by  their  inex- 
haustible fertility,  abundant  wealth  to  the 
Fathers.  Behind  these,  higher  and  abrupt 
hills  arise,  clad  with  ever-green  forests.  In 
the  far  distance,  rise  the  white  summits  of 
the  Sierra  Nevada." 

"  This  mission  was  one  of  the  many  esta- 
blished between  the  Sierra  Nevada  and  the 
Pacific  coast,"  interrupted  Ezekiel,  "  by  zeal- 
ous missionaries  of  the  Papal  Church.  If  I 
mistake  not,  having  obtained  large  grants  of 
land  from  the  Mexican  government,  they 
gathered  the  Indians  into  missions,  reared 
huge  mission-houses,  and  employed  the  Indi- 
ans in  the  cultivation  of  the  soil." 

"  Not  only  in  California,  on  the  west  side 
of  Sierra  Nevada,  but  also  far  to  the  east  of 
that  range  of  *  Snow  Mountains '  abounded 
these  missions,  ruled  by  the  Fathers  and 
supported  by  the  labor  of  the  submissive 
Indians.  But  now,  for  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  miles,  you  will  find  the  mission- 
houses  silent  and  deserted.  The  rule  of  the 
Fathers  passed  away  in  1836 — in  one  of  the 
thousand  revolutions  of  Mexico — the  mis- 
sions passed  into  the  hands  of  private  indi- 
viduals, and  in  some  cases  the  Indians  were 
transferred  with  the  land." 

"  But  the  mission-house  of  San  Luis  ?" 

"  Is  claimed  by  powerful  members  of  the 
Society  of  Jesus,  who  residing  in  the  city 
of  Mexico,  have  managed  to  keep  a  quiet 
hold  upon  the  various  governments,  which 
have  of  late  years  abounded  in  that  unhappy 
republic.  They  claim  the  mission-house  and 
the  lands,  originally  granted  sixty  years  ago, 
to  Brothers  of  their  order  by  the  Govern- 
ment, and  they  claim  certain  lands,  not  named 
in  the  original  grant." 

He  paused,  but  Ezekiel  Bogart  completed 
the  sentence : 

**  Lands  purchased  some  years  since,  froni 


I  the  Government  by  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer  ?  Is 
j  their  claim  likely  to  be  granted  ?" 
j     "  That  is  a  question  upon  which  I  will  be 
most  happy  to  converse  with  Dr.  Martin 
Fulmer,"  was  the  bland  reply  of  Gaspar 
Manuel. 

i  "  These  lands  are  fertile — that  is,  as  fertile 
j  as  the  lands  immediately  attached  to  the 
;  mission  ?" 

I     "  Barren,  barren  as  Zahara,"  replied  Gaspar. 

I  "  A  thousand  acres  in  all,  they  are  bounded 
by  desolate  hills,  desolate  of  foliage,  and 

i  broken  into  ravines  and  gorges,  by  mountain 

I  streams.  You  stand  upon  one  of  the  hills, 
and  survey  the  waste  Avhich  constitutes  Mar- 

]  tin  Fulmer's  lands,  and  you  contrast  them 
with  the  mission  lands,  and  feel  as  though 
Zahara  and  Eden  stood  side  by  side  before 

I  you.    A  gloomier  sight  cannot  be  imagined." 

I  "And  yet,"  said  Ezekiel,  "these  lands 
are  situated  but  a  few  leagues  from  the 
mission-house.  It  is  strange  that  the  Jesuit 
Brothers  should  desire  to  possess  such  a 
miserable  desert.  Do  you  imagine  their 
motives  ?" 

"  It  is  about  their  'tnotivcs  that  I  desire  to 
speak  with  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer,"  and  Gaspar 
i  shaded  his  eyes  with  the  white  hand  which 
!  blazed  with  the  diamond  ring. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  beneath  his  up- 
lifted hand,  Gaspar  Manuel  attentively  sur- 
veyed Ezekiel  Bogart,  while  Ezekiel  Bogart, 
as  earnestly  surveyed  Gaspar  Manuel,  under 
the  protection  of  the  green  shade  which 
concealed  his  eyes. 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  great  many  visitors 
to-night,"  said  Gaspar,  resting  his  arm  on  tho 
table  and  his  forehead  on  his  hand ;  "  allow 
me  to  ask,  is  it  usual  to  transact  business,  at 
such  a  late  hour,  in  this  country  ?" 

"  The  business  transacted  by  Dr.  Martin 
Fulmer,  dilfers  widely  from  the  business  of 
Wall  street,"  replied  Ezekiel,  dryly. 

"  The  proi:)erty  of  Gulian  Van  Huyden, 
has  by  this  time  doubled  itself  ?"  asked 
Gaspar,  still  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  table. 
Ezekiel  started,  but  Gaspar  continued,  as 
though  thinking  aloud — "Let  me  see:  at  the 
time  of  his  death,  the  estate  was  estimated 
at  two  millions  of  dollars.  Of  this  $1,251,- 
000  was  invested  in  real  estate  in  the  city  of 
New  Y'ork;  $100,000  in  bank  and  other 
Hands  of  stock;  $50,000  in  lands  in  the 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


63 


Western  country;  $1,000  in  a  tract  of  one 
thousand  acres  in  Pennsylvania;  and  $458,- 
000  in  bank  notes  and  gold.  Then  the  Van 
Huyden  mansion  and  grounds  were  valued 
at  $150,000.    Are  my  figures  correct,  sir  ?" 

As  though  altogether  amazed  by  the 
minute  knowledge  which  Gaspar  Manuel, ! 
seemed  to  possess,  in  regard  to  the  Van 
Huyden  estate,  Ezekiel  did  not  reply. 

"By  this  time  this  great  estate  has  no 
doubt  doubled,  perhaps  trebled  itself." 

Ezekiel  raised  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  and 
preserved  a  statue-like  silence. 

'*  This  room,  which  is  no  doubt  vaulted 
and  fire-proof,  contains  I  presume,  all  the 
important  records,  title-deeds  and  other  papers 
relating  to  the  estate." 

Ezekiel  rose  from  his  chair,  and  slowly 
lighted  a  wax  candle  which  stood  upon  the 
table.  Gathering  the  dark  wrapper,  lined 
with  scarlet,  about  his  tall  form  which  seemed 
bent  with  age,  he  took  the  silver  candlestick 
in  his  right  hand,  and  swept  aside  a  curtain 
which  concealed  the  shelves  behind  his  chair. 
A  narrow  doorway  was  disclosed. 

"  Will  you  step  this  way,  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, sir  ?"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  doorway, 
as  he  held  the  light  above  his  head,  thus 
throwing  the  shadow  of  the  green  shade 
completely  over  his  face. 

Gaspar  Manuel  without  a  word,  rose  and 
followed  him.  They  entered  a  room  or  rather 
vault,  resembling  in  the  general  features  the 
one  which  they  had  left.  It  w^as  racked  and 
shelved  ;  the  floor  was  brick  and  the  shelves 
groaned  under  the  weight  of  carefully  ar- 
ranged papers. 

"  This  room  or  vault,  without  windows  as 
you  see,  and  rendered  secure,  beyond  a 
doubt,  from  all  danger  of  robbery  or  of  fire, 
is  one  of  seven,"  said  Ezekiel.  "  In  this  room 
are  kept  all  title  deeds  and  papers,  which 
relate  to  the  Thousand  acres  in  Pennsyl- 
vania." 

"  The  Thousand  acres  in  Pennsylvania !" 
echoed  Gaspar,  '*  surely  all  these  documents 
and  papers,  do  not  relate  to  that  tract,  which 
Van  Huyden  originally  purchased  for  one 
thousand  dollars  ?" 

"  Twenty-one  years  ago,  they  could  have 
been  purchased  for  a  thousand  dollars,"  an- 
swered Ezekiel :  "  twenty-one  years,  to  a 
country  like  this,  is  the  same  as  five  hundred ' 


to  Europe.    Those  lands  could  not  now  be 
purchased  for  twenty  millions." 
"  Twenty  millions  !" 

"  They  comprise  inexhaustible  mines  of 
coal  and  iron — the  richest  in  the  state,"  an- 
swered Ezekiel,  quietly,  and  drawing  a  cur- 
!  tain,  he  led  the  way  into  a  third  vault. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  holding  the  light  above 
his  head,  so  that  its  rays  fell  full  upon  the 
pallid  face  of  Gaspar,  while  his  own  was 
buried  in  shadow  ;  "  here  are  kept  all  papers 
and  title-deeds,  which  relate  to  the  lands  in 
the  Avestern  country — lands  purchased  for 
fifty  thousand  dollai-s,  at  a  time  when  Ohio 
was  a  thinly  settled  colony  and  all  the  region 
further  west  a  wilderness — but  lands  which 
now  are  distributed  through  five  states,  and 
which,  dotted  with  villages,  rich  in  mines 
and  tenanted  by  thousands,  return  an  annual 

rent  of,  " 

He  paused. 

"  Of  I  do  not  care  to  say  how  many  dol- 
lars. Enough,  perhaps,  to  buy  a  German 
prince  or  two.    This  way,  sir." 

Passing  through  a  narrow  doorway,  they 
entered  a  third  vault,  arched  and  shelved 
like  the  other. 

"  This  place  is  devoted  to  the  Van  Huy- 
den mansion,"  said  Ezekiel,  pointing  to  the 
well-filled  shelves.  "  It  was  M'orth  $150,000 
twenty-one  years  ago,  but  now  a  flourishing 
town  has  sprung  up  in  the  center  of  its  lands; 
mills  and  manufactories  arise  in  its  valleys  ; 
a  population  of  five  thousand  souls  exists, 
where  twenty-one  years  ago  there  were  not 
two  hundred  souls,  all  told.  And  these  five 
thousand  are  laboring  night  and  day,  not  so 
much  for  themselves  as  to  increase  the  wealth 
of  the  Van  Huyden  estate." 

"  And  all  this  is  estimated  at,  ,"  began 

Gaspar. 

"We  will  not  say,"  quietly  responded 
Ezekiel.    "Here  are  the  title-deeds  of  the 
town,  of  the  mansion,  of  manufactory  and 
mill,  all  belong  to  the  estate  ;  not  one  of  the 
five  thousand  souls  owns  one  inch  of  the 
ground  on  which  they  toil,  or  one  shingle  of 
the  roof  beneath  which  they  sleep. 
They  entered  the  fourth  vault. 
"  This  is  dedicated  to  the  '  Real  Estate  in 
the  city  of  New  York,' "  said  Ezekiel  — 
worth   $1,521,000,  twenty-one   years  ago, 
'  and  now — well,  well — New  York  twenty- 


64 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


one  yeai"S  ago  was  the  presumptions  rival  of 
Philadelphia.  vShe  is  now  the  city  of  the 
Continent.  And  this  real  estate  is  located  in 
the  most  thriving  portions  of  the  city — 
among  the  haunts  of  trade  near  the  Battery, 
and  in  the  region  of  splendid  mansions  up 
town." 

"And  3'ou  would  not  like  to  name  the 
usual  revenue  ?" — a  smile  crossed  the  pale 
visage  of  Gtispar  Manuel. 

Ezekiel  led  the  way  into  the  fifth  vault. 

"Matters  in  regard  to  Banks  and  bank 
stock  are  kept  here,"  he  said,  showing  the 
light  of  the  candle  upon  the  well  laden 
shelves — "  Ilather  an  uncertain  kind  of  pro- 
perty. The  United  States'  Bank  made  a 
sad  onslaught  upon  these  shelves.  But  let 
us  go  into  the  next  room." 

And  they  went  into  the  sixth  room. 

"  This  is  our  bank,"  said  Ezekiel ;  "  that 
is  to  say,  the  Treasury  of  the  Van  Huyden 
estate,  in  which  we  keep  our  specie  basis. 
You  perceive  the  huge  iron  safe  which  occu- 
pies nearly  one-half  of  the  apartment  ?  Dr. 
Martin  Fulmer  carries  the  Key  of  course,  and 
with  that  Key  he  can  perchance,  at  any  mo- 
ment, command  the  destinies  of  the  commer- 
cial world.  A  golden  foundation  is  a  solid 
foundation,  as  the  world  goes." 

As  though  for  the  moment  paralyzed,  by 
the  revelation  of  the  immense  v\'ealth  of  the 
Van  Huyden  estate,  Gaspar  Manuel  stood 
motionless  as  a  statue,  resting  one  arm  upon 
the  huge  safe  and  at  the  same  time  resting 
his  forehead  in  his  hand. 

"  We  will  now  pass  into  t^.e  seventh  apart- 
ment," said  Ezekiel,  and  in  a  moment  they 
stood  in  the  last  vault  of  the  seven.  "  It  is 
arched  and  shelved,  you  perceive,  like  the 
others  ;  and  the  shelves  are  burdened  Avith 
carefully-arranged  papers  " 

"  Title-deeds,  I  presume,  title-deeds  and 
mortgages  ?"  interrupted  Gaspar  Manuel. 

"  No,"  answered  Ezekiel,  suffering  the  rays 
of  the  candle  to  fall  upon  the  crowded 
shelves.  "  Those  shelves  contain  briefs  of  the 
personal  history  of  perpnanent  persons  of  this 
city,  of  many  parts  of  the  Union,  I  may  say, 
of  many  parts  of  the  globe.  Sketches  of  the 
personal  history  of  prominent  persons,  and  of 
persons  utterly  obscure  :  records  of  remark- 
able facts,  in  the  history  of  particular  fami- 
lies :  br.i  '^•t^resting  portraitures  of 


incidents,  societies,  governrients  and  men ; 

ithe  contents  of  those  shelves,  sir,  is  know- 
ledge, and  knowledge  that,  in  the  grasp  of  a 
determined  man,  would  be  a  fearful  Power. 

:  For,"  he  turned  and  fixed  his  gaze  on  Ga?;  •\r 
Manuel ;  "  for  you  stand  in  the  Secret  Pa 

j  lice  Department  of  the  Van  Huyden  estate." 

1  These  last  words,  pronounced  with  an  em- 
phasis of  deep  significance,  evidently  aroused 
an  intense  curiosity  in  the  breast  of  Gaspar 
Manuel. 

"  Secret  Police  Department !"  he  echoed, 
his  dark  eyes  flashing  Avith  renewed  luster. 

"Even  so,"  dryly  responded  Ezekiel,  "for 
the  Van  Huyden  estate  is  not  a  secret  society 
jlike  the  Jesuits,  nor  a  corporation  like 
Trinity  Church,  nor  a  government  like  the 
United  States  or  Great  Britain,  but  it  is  a 
Goi:ermnent  based  vpm  Money  and  controlled  by 
the  Iron  Will  of  One  Man.  A  Government 
based,  I  repeat  it,  upon  incredible  wealth, 
and  absolutely  in  the  control  of  one  man, 
who  for  twenty-one  years,  has  devoted  his 
whole  soul  to  the  administration  of  the  sin- 
gular and  awful  Power  intrusted  to  him. 
Such  a  Government  needs  a  Secret  Police, 
ramifying  through  all  the  arteries  of  the 
social  world  —  and  you  now  stand  in  the 
office  of  that  wide-spread  and  almost  ubiqui- 
tous Police." 

"A  secret  society  may  be  disturbed  by 
internal  dissensions,"  said  Gaspar  Manuel,  as 
though  thinking  aloud  ;  "  a  government  may 
be  crippled  by  party  jealousies,  but  this  Gov- 
ernnment  of  the  Van  Huyden  Estate,  based 
upon  money,  is  simply  controlled  by  one 
man,  who  knows  his  mind,  who  sees  his 
way  clear,  whose  will  is  deepened  by  a  con- 
viction— perhaps  a  fanaticism — as  unrelent- 
ing as  death  itself.  Ah  !  the  influence  of 
such  a  Government  is  fearful,  nay  horrible, 
to  contemplate  !" 

"  It  is,  it  is  indeed,"  said  Ezekiel,  in  a  low 
and  mournful  voice  ;  "  and  the  responsibi- 
lity of  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer,  most  solemn  and 
terrible." 

"  But  what  would  become  of  this  Govem- 
!  ment,  were  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer  to  die  before 
I  the  25th  of  December  ?"  asked  Gaspar 
I  Manuel. 

I  "  But  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer  will  not  die 
!  before  the  25th  of  December,"  responded 
j  Ezekiel,  in  a  tone  of  singular  emphasis. 


r 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


65 


"And  this  immense  power  will  drop  from 
his  grasp  on  the  25th  of  December,"  continued 
Caspar  Manuel.  **  Who  will  succeed  him  ? 
Into  whose  hands  will  it  fall — this  incredible 
power  ?" 

"  Your  question  will  be  answered  on  the 
25th  of  December,"  slowly  responded  Ezc- 
kiel,  and  motioning  to  Gaspar,  he  retraced 
his  steps  through  the  six  vaults  or  apart- 
ments, and  presently  stood  in  the  first  of  the 
seven  vaults,  where  we  first  beheld  him. 

He  seated  himself  in  the  huge  arm-chair, 
while  Gaspar  Manuel,  resuming  his  cloak  and 
sombrero,  stood  ready  to  depart. 

"  Now  that  I  have  given  you  some  reve- 
lation of  the  immense  resources  of  the  Van 
Huyden  Estate,"  said  Ezekiel,  as  he  atten- 
tively surveyed  that  cloaked  and  motionless 
figure  ;  "  you  will,  I  presume,  have  no  objec- 
tion to  converse  with  me  in  regard  to  the 
lands  on  the  Pacific,  as  freely  and  as  fully, 
as  though  you  stood  face  to  face  with  Dr. 
Martin  Fulmer  ?" 

"  Pardon,"  said  Gaspar  Manuel  with  a  low 
brow,  "  the  facts  in  my  possession  are  for  the 
ear  of  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer,  and  for  his  ear 
alone." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  replied  Ezekiel,  in  a  tone 
of  impatience,  "  as  you  please.  Call  here  to- 
morrow at — "  he  named  the  hour — "  and 
you  shall  see  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer." 

"I  will  be  here  at  the  hour,"  and  bidding 
good-night !  to  Ezekiel,  Gaspar  bowed  and 
moved  to  the  door.  He  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment on  the  threshold  

"  Pardon  me,  sir,  but  I  would  like  to  ask 
you  a  single  question." 

"  Well,  sir." 

"  I  am  curious  to  know  what  has  induced 
you,  to  disclose  to  me — almost  an  entire 
stranger — the  secrets  and  resources  of  the 
Van  Huyden  Estate  ?" 

"  Sir,"  responded  Ezekiel  Bogart,  in  a 
voice  which  deep  and  stern,  was  imbued 
with  the  consciousness  of  Power;  "you  will 
excuse  me  from  giving  you  a  direct  reply. 
But  you  would  not  have  crossed  the  thresh- 
old of  any  one  of  the  seven  apartments,  had 
I  not  been  conscious,  that  it  is  utterly  out  of 
your  power,  to  abuse  the  knowledge  which 
you  have  obtained." 

Again  Gaspar  Manuel  bowed,  and  without 
a  word,  left  the  room. 


Ezekiel  Bogart  was  alone. 

He  folded  his  arms  and  bowed  his  head 
upon  his  breast.  Strange  and  tumultuous 
thoughts,  stamped  their  deep  lines  upon  his 
massive  brov/.  The  dimly-lighted  room  was 
silent  as  the  grave,  and  the  light  fell  faintly 
upon  that  singular  figure,  buried  in  the  folds 
of  the  dark  robe  lined  with  scarlet,  the  head 
covered  with  an  inisightly  skullcap,  the  eyes 
vailed  by  a  green  shade,  the  chin  and  mouth 
concealed  by  the  cumbrous  cravat.  Lower 
drooped  the  head  of  Ezekiel,  but  still  the 
light  fell  upon  his  bared  forehead,  and 
showed  the  tumultuous  thoughts  that  were 
working  there.  The  very  soul  of  Ezekiel, 
retired  within  itself  and  absent  from  all  ex- 
ternal things,  was  buried  in  a  maze  of  pro- 
found, of  overwhelming  thought. 

The  aged  servant  entered  with  a  noiseless 
step,  "  Here  is  a  letter,  sir,"  he  said.  But 
Ezekiel  did  not  hear.  "  Sir,  a  letter  from 
Philadelphia,  by  a  messenger  who  has  just 
arrived."  But  Ezekiel,  profoundly  absorbed, 
was  unconscious  of  his  presence. 

The  aged  servant  advanced,  and  placed 
the  letter  on  the  table,  directly  before  his 
absent-minded  master.  He  touched  Ezekiel 
respectfully  on  the  shoulder  and  repeated  in 
a  louder  voice — "A  letter,  sir,  an  important 
letter  from  Philadelphia,  by  a  messenger 
who  has  just  arrived." 

Ezekiel  started  in  his  chair,  like  ono 
suddenly  awakened  from  a  sound  slumber. 
At  a  glance  he  read  the  superscription  of 
the  letter :  "  To  Ezekiel  Boijart,  Esq. — Imr- 
portanU^ 

"  The  handwriting  of  the  Agent  whom  I 
yesterday  sent  to  Philadelphia !"  he  ejacu- 
lated, and  opened  the  letter.  These  were 
its  contents  : 

Philadelphia,  Dec.  23,  1844. 
Sir  : — I  have  just  returned  to  the  city, 
from  the  Asylum — returned  in  time  to  dis- 
patch this  letter  by  an  especial  messenger, 
who  will  go  to  New^  York,  in  the  five  o'clock 
train.  At  your  request,  and  in  accordance 
with  your  instructions,  I  visited  the  Asylum 
for  the  Insane,  this  morning,  expecting  to 
bring  away  with  me  the  Patient  whom  you 
named.  lie  escaped  sc/tne  days  ago — so  the 
manager  infonned  me.  And  since  his  escape 
no  intelligence  has  been  had  of  his  move- 


66 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


meuts.  I  have  not  time  to  add  more,  but 
desire  your  instructions  in  the  premises. 

Yours  truly,  H.  H. 

To   EZEKIEL  BOGART,  EsQ. 

No  sooner  had  Ezckiel  scanned  the  con- 
tents of  this  epistle,  than  he  was  seized  with 
powerful  agitation. 

"  Escaped  !  The  child  of  Gulian  escaped!" 
he  cried,  and  started  from  the  chair — "to- 
morrow he  was  to  be  here,  in  this  house,  in 
readiness  for  the  Day.  Escaped  !  Why  did 
not  the  manager  at  once  send  me  word  ? 
Ah,  woe,  woe !"  He  turned  to  the  aged 
servant,  and  continued,  "Bring  the  person 
who  brought  this  letter,  to  me,  at  once, 
quick  !    Not  an  instant  is  to  be  lost." 

And  as  the  aged  servant  Icfc  the  room, 
Ezekiel  sank  back  in  his  chair,  like  one  who 
is  overpowered  by  a  sudden  and  unexpected 
calamity. 

CHAPTER  Y. 

THE  LEGATE  OF  THE  POPE. 

As  Gaspar  Manuel  left  the  house  of  Eze- 
kiel Bogart,  he  wrapped  his  cloak  closely 
about  his  form,  and  drew  his  sombrero  low 
upon  his  face.  His  head  drooped  upon  his 
breast  as  he  hurried  along,  with  a  quick  and 
impetuous  step.  Soon  he  was  in  Broadway 
again,  amid  its  glare  and  uproar,  but  he  did 
not  raise  his  head,  nor  turn  his  gaze  to  the 
right  or  left.  Head  drooped  upon  his  breast 
and  arms  gathered  tightly  over  his  chest,  he 
threaded  his  way  through  the  mazes  of  the 
crowd,  as  absent  from  the  scene  around  him, 
as  a  man  walking  in  his  sleep. 

Arrived  at  the  Astor  House,  he  hurried  to 
his  room  and  changed  his  dress.  Divesting 
himself  of  his  fashionable  attire — black  dress- 
coat,  scarf,  white- vest — he  clad  himself  in  a 
single-breasted  frock-coat,  buttoned  to  the 
throat  and  reaching  below  the  knees.  Above 
its  straight  collar,  a  glimpse  of  his  white- 
cravat  was  perceptible.  And  over  the  dark 
surface  of  his  coat,  was  wound  a  massy  goH 
chain,  to  which  was  appended,  a  Golden  Seal 
and  a  Golden  Cross.  Over  this  costume, 
which  in  its  severe  simplicity,  displayed  his 
slender  frame  to  great  advantage,  he  threw  | 
his  cloak,  and  once  more  hurried  from  the  | 
Hotel. 


•  Pausing  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the 
Astor,  he  engaged  a  hackney-coach — 

"  Do  you  know  where,  ,  resides?" 

he  asked  of  the  driver ;  a  huge  individual, 
in  a  white  overcoat,  and  oil-skin  hat. 

"  Sure  and  I  does  jist  that,"  was  the  an- 
swer. "  It's  meself  that  knows  the  residence 
of  his  Riv'rence  as  well  as  the  nose  on  my 
face." 

"Drive  me  there,  at  once,"  said  Gaspar 
Manuel. 

And  presently  the  carriage  was  rolling  up 
Broadway,  bearing  Gaspar  Manuel  to  the 
residence  of  a  prominent  dignitary  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church. 

As  the  little  clock  on  the  mantle  struck 
the  hour  of  eleven,  the  Prelate  was  sitting  in 
an  e£isy  chair,  in  front  of  a  bright  wood  fire. 
It  was  in  a  spacious  apartment,  connected 
with  his  library  by  a  narrow  door.  Two 
tall  wax  candles,  placed  upon  the  table  by 
his  side,  shed  their  light  over  the  softly  car- 
peted floor,  the  neatly  papered  walls,  and 
over  the  person  of  the  Prelate,  who  was  seated 
at  his  ease,  in  the  center  of  the  scene. 

The  Prelate  was  a  man  of  some  forty-five 
years,  with  boldly  marked  features,  and  sharp 
fiery  eyes,  indicating  an  incessantly  active 
mind.  The  light  fell  mildly  on  his  tonsured 
crown,  encircled  by  brown  hair,  streaked  with 
gray,  and  his  bold  forehead  and  compressed 
lip.  His  form  broad  in  the  shoulders,  mus- 
cular in  the  chest,  and  slightly  inclined  to 
corpulence,  was  clad  in  a  long  robe  of  dark 
purple,  reaching  from  his  throat  to  his  feet. 
There  was  a  cross  on  his  right  breast  and  a 
diamond  ring  on  the  little  finger  of  his  left- 
hand. 

Thus  alone,  in  his  most  private  room — the 
labors  of  the  day  accomplished  and  the  world 
shut  out — the  Prelate  was  absorbed  in  the 
mazes  of  a  delightful  reverie. 

He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  a  picture  whic^ 
hung  over  the  mantle,  on  the  left.  It  was  a 
portrait  of  Cardinal  Dubois,  wlio  in  the  days 
of  the  Regency,  trailed  his  Red  Hat  in  the 
mire  of  nameless  debaucheries. 

"Fool!"  muttered  the  Prelate,  '"he  had 
not  even  sense  to  hide  his  vices,  under  the 
thinnest  vail  of  decency." 

He  turned  his  eyes  to  a  portrait  which 
hung  over  the  mantle  on  the  right.  "  There 
was  a  man  1"  he  muttered,  and  a  smile  shot 


FROM  KIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


67 


over  his  face.  The  portrait  was  that  of 
Cardinal  Richelieu  who  butchered  the  Hu- 
guenots in  France,  while  he  was  supplying 
armies  to  aid  the  Protestants  of  Germany. 
Richelieu,  one  of  those  Politicians  who  seem 
to  regard  the  Church  simply  as  a  machine 
for  the  advancement  of  their  personal  ambi- 
tion,— the  cross  as  a  glittering  bauble,  only 
designed  to  dazzle  the  eyes  of  the  masses, — 
the  seamless  Cloak  of  the  Redeemer,  as  a 
cloak  intended  to  cover  outrages  the  most 
atrocious,  which  are  done  in  the  name  of 
God. 

"  He  was  a  man  !"  repeated  the  Prelate. 
"He  moulded  the  men  and  events  of  his 

time,  and,  "  he  stopped.    He  smiled. 

"Why  cannot  I  mould  to  my  own  purposes, 
the  men  and  events  of  my  time,  using  the 
Church  as  a  convenient  engine  ?"  Some 
thought  like  this  seemed  to  flit  over  his 
mind. 

Having  attentively  turned  his  gaze  from 
Cardinal  Dubois  to  Cardinal  Richelieu,  the 
Prelate  at  length  fixed  his  eyes  upon  a  mar- 
ble bust,  which  stood  in  the  center  of  the 
mantle.  And  his  lips  moved,  and  his  eyes 
flashed,  and  his  right  hand  waved  slowly 
to  and  fro,  before  his  face,  as  though  he  saw 
a  glorious  future,  drawn  in  the  air,  by  a  pro- 
phetic pencil. 

The  marble  bust  upon  which  he  gazed, 
was  the  bust  of  one,  who  from  the  very 
lowest  walk  in  life  had  risen  to  be  Pope  :  and 
one  of  the  strongest,  sternest  Popes  that  ever 
held  the  scepter  of  the  Vatican. 

"It  can  be  won,"  ejaculated  the  Prelate, 
"and  the  means  lie  here,"  he  placed  his 
hand  upon  a  Map  which  lay  on  the  table. 
It  was  a  map  of  the  American  Continent. 

"  I  came  up  stairs  without  ceremony,"  said 
a  calm  even  voice  ;  "  your  Grace's  servant  in- 
formed me,  that  you  expected  me." 

"  I  am  heartily  glad  to  see  you,  my  Lord," 
said  the  Prelate,  turning  abruptly  and  con- 
fronting his  visitor :  "  it  is  now  two  years 
since  I  met  your  Lordship  in  Rome.  It  was, 
you  remember,  just  before  you  departed  to 
Mexico,  as  the  Legate  of  His  Holiness.  How 
has  it  been  with  you  since  I  saAv  you  last  ?" 

"I  have  encountered  many  adventures," 
answered  "  His  Lordship,"  the  Legate,  "  and 
none  more  interesting  than  those  connected 
with  the  Mission  of  San  Luis  and  its  lands — " 


I     Thus  saying  the  Legate — in  obedience  to 
a  courteous  gesture  from  the  Prelate — flung 
\  aside  his  hat  and  cloak,  and  took  a  seat  by 
I  the  table. 

I  The  Legate  was  none  other  than  our  friend 
Gaspar  Manuel. 

They  were  in  singular  contrast,  the  Legato 
and  the  Prelate.  The  muscular  form  and 
hard  practical  face  of  the  Prelate,  was  cer- 
tainly, in  strong  contrast  with  the  slender 
j  frame,  and  pale — almost  corpse-like-face  of 
the  Legate,  with  its  waving  hair  and  beard 
of  inky  blackness.  Conscious  that  their  con- 
versation might  one  day  have  its  issue,  in 
events  or  in  disclosures  of  vital  importance, 
they  for  a  few  moments  surveyed  each  other 
in  silence.  When  the  Prelate  spoke,  there 
was  an  air  of  deference  in  his  manner,  which 
showed  that  he  addressed  one  far  superior  to 
himself  in  position,  in  rank  and  power. 

We  will  omit  the  Lordships  and  Graces 
with  which  these  gentlemen,  interlarded  their 
conversation.  Lordships  and  Graces  and 
Eminences,  are  matters  with  which  we  sim- 
ple folks  of  the  American  Union,  are  but 
poorly  acquainted. 

"  You  are  last  from  Havana  ?"  asked  the 
Prelate. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Legate  :  "  and  a 
month  ago  I  was  in  the  city  of  Mexico  ;  two 
months  since  in  California,  at  the  mission  of 
San  Luis." 

"And  the  Fathers  are  likely  to  regain 
possession  of  the  deserted  mission  ?  You 
intimated  so  much  in  the  letter  which  you 
were  kind  enough  to  write  me  from  Havana." 

"  They  are  likely  to  regain  possession," 
said  the  Legate. 

"But  the  mission  will  be  worth  nothing 
without  the  thousand  acres  of  barren  land," 
continued  the  Prelate  :  "  Will  the  barren 
land  go  with  the  mission  ?" 

"  In  regard  to  that  point  I  will  inform  you 
fully  before  we  part.  For  the  present  let  me 
remind  you,  that  it  was  an  important  part  of 
my  mission,  to  the  New  World,  to  ascertain 
the  prospects  of  the  Church  in  that  section 
of  the  Continent,  known  as  the  United  States. 
Allow  me  to  solicit  from  you,  a  brief  exposi- 
tion of  the  condition  and  prospects  of  our 
Church  in  this  part  of  the  globe." 

The  Prelate  laid  his  hand  upon  the  Ame- 
rican Continent : 


68 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


"  The  north,  that  is  tho  Republic  of  the 
United  States,  will  finally  absorb  and  rule 
over  all  the  nations  of  the  Continent.  By 
Avar,  by  peace,  in  one  way  or  another  the 
thing  is  certain — " 

He  paused  :  the  Legate  made  a  gesture  of 
assent. 

"It  is  our  true  policy,  then,  to  absorb  and 
rule  over  the  Republic  of  the  North.  To 
make  our  Church  the  secret  spring  of  its 
Government ;  to  gradually  and  without  ex- 
citing suspicion,  mould  every  one  of  its 
institutions  to  our  own  purposes ;  to  control 
the  education  of  its  people,  and  bend  the 
elective  francliiae  to  our  will.  Is  not  this 
our  object  ?" 

Again  the  Legate  signified  assent. 

"And  this  must  be  done,  by  making  New 
York  the  center  of  our  system.  New  York 
is  in  reality,  the  metropolis  of  the  Continent; 
from  New  York  as  from  a  common  center, 
therefore  all  our  efforts  must  radiate.  From 
New  York  we  will  control  the  Republic, 
shape  it  year  by  year  to  our  purposes  ;  as  it 
adds  nation  after  nation  to  its  Union,  we  will 
make  our  grasp  of  its  secret  springs  of  action, 
the  more  certain  and  secure  ;  and  at  last  the 
hour  will  come,  when  this  Continent  appa- 
rently one  united  republic,  will  in  fact,  be 
the  richest  altar,  the  strongest  abiding-place, 
the  most  valuable  property  of  the  Church. 
Yes,  the  hour  will  come,  when  the  flimsy 
scaffolding  of  Republicanism  will  fall,  and  as 
it  falls,  our  Church  will  stand  revealed,  her 
foundation  in  the  heart  of  the  American 
Republic  ;  her  shadow  upon  every  hill  and 
valley  of  the  Continent.  For  you  know," 
and  his  eye  flashed,  "  that  our  battle  against 
what  is  called  Democracy  and  Progress,  is 
to  be  fought  not  in  the  Old  World,  where 
everything  is  on  our  side,  but  in  the  New 
World,  where  these  damnable  heresies  do 
most  abound." 

"  True,"  interrupted  the  Legate,  thought- 
fully; "the  New  World  is  the  battle-field  of 
opinions.    Here  the  fight  must  take  place." 

"  You  ask  how  our  work  is  to  begin  ? 
Here  in  New  York  we  will  commence  it. 
Hundreds  of  thousands  of  foreigners  of  our 
faith  arrive  in  this  city  every  year.  Be  it 
our  task  to  plant  an  eternal  barrier  between 
these  men,  and  those  who  are  American 
citizens  by  birth.    To  prevent  them  from 


mingling  with  the  American  People,  from 
learning  the  traditions  of  American  history, 
which  give  the  dogma  of  Democracy  its 
strongest  hold  uj^on  the  heart,  to  isolate  them, 
jin  the  midst  of  the  American  nation.  In  a 
word,  the  first  stop  of  our  work  is,  to  array 
at  the  zealous  Foreign  party,  an  oi)positicn  lo 
an  envenomed  Native  Aiucrican  })arty." 

"  This  you  have  commenced  already," 
said  the  Legate, — "  it  was  in  Mexico,  +ihat  I 
heard  of  Philadelphia  last  summer — of  Phil- 
adelphia on  the  verge  of  civil  war  with  Pro- 
testants and  Catholics  flooding  the  gutters 
with  their  blood,  while  the  flames  of  burning 
churches  lit  up  the  midnight  sky." 

"The  outbreak  was  rather  premature," 
calmly  continued  the  Prelate,  "but  it  hiva 
done  us  good.  It  has  invested  us  Avith  the 
light  of  martyrdom;  the  glory  of  persecution. 
It  has  drawn  to  us  the  sympathies  of  tens 
of  thousands  of  Protestants,  who,  honestly- 
disliking  the  assaults  of  the  mere  'No-Po- 
pery' lecturers  upon  our  church,  as  honestly 
entertain  the  amusing  notion,  that  the  Rulers 
of  our  church,  look  uj)on  '  Toleration,  Liberty 
of  Conscience,'  and  so  forth,  with  any  feeling, 
but  profound  contempt." 

"  Ah  !"  ejaculated  the  Legate,  and  a  smile 
crossed  his  ftice,  "deriving  strength  from  tho 
illimitable  bitterness  of  the  Native  American 
and  Foreign  political  i^artics,  we  already 
hold  in  many  portions  of  the  Union,  the 
ballot  box  in  our  grasp.  We  can  dictate 
terms  to  both  political  parties.  Their  leaders 
court  us.  Editors  Avho  know  that  we  rooted 
Protestantism  out  of  Spain,  b}-  the  red  hand 
of  the  Inquisition, — that  for  our  faith  we 
made  the  Netherlands  rich  in  gibbets  and 
graves, — that  we  gave  the  word,  v.  hich  start- 
ed from  its  scabbard  the  dagger  of  St.  Bar- 
tholomew,— grave  editors,  who  know  all  this 
and  more,  talk  of  us  as  the  friends  of  Liberty 
and  Toleration — " 

"  But  there  was  Calvert,  the  founder  of 
Maryland,  and  CaiToU  the  signer  of  the  De- 
claration of  Independence,  these  were  Catho- 
lics, were  they  not,  Catholics  and  friends  of 
Liberty  ?" 

"  They  were  laijmen,  not  rulers,  you  will 
remember,"  said  the  Prelate,  significantly  : 
"  at  best  they  belonged  to  a  sort  of  Catholics, 
which,  in  the  Old  World,  we  have  done  our 
best  to  root  out  of  the  church.    But  her*?, 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


jiowever,  we  can  use  their  names  and  their 
memories,  as  a  cloak  for  our  ^^urposes  of  ulti- 
mate dominion.  But  to  resume  :  both  poli- 
tical parties  court  us.  Their  leaders,  who 
loathe  us,  are  forced  to  kneel  to  us.  Things 
we  can  do  freely  and  without  blame,  which 
damn  any  Protestant  sect  but  to  utter.  The 
very  'No-Popery'  lecturers  aid  us:  they 
attack  doctrinal  points  in  our  church,  which 
are  no  more  assailable  than  the  doctrinal 
points  of  any  one  of  their  ten  thousand  sects: 
they  would  be  dangerous,  indeed,  were  they 
to  confine  their  assaults  to  the  simple  fact, 
that  ours  is  not  so  much  a  church  as  an  EM- 
PIRE, having  for  its  object,  the  temporal 
dominion  of  the  whole  human  race,  to  be 
accomplished  under  the  vail  of  spiritualism. 
An  EMPIRE  built  upon  the  very  sepulcher 
of  Jesus  Christ, — an  empire  which  holds 
Religion,  the  Cross,  the  Bible,  as  valuable 
j  ust  so  far  as  they  aid  its  efforts  for  the  tem- 
poral subjection  of  the  world, — an  empire 
which,  using  all  means  and  holding  all  means 
alike  lawful,  for  the  spread  of  its  dominion, 
has  chosen  the  American  Continent  as  the 
scene  of  its  loftiest  triumph,  the  theater  of  its 
final  and  most  glorious  victories  !" 

As  he  spoke  the  Atheist  Prelate  started 
from  his  chair. 

Far  different  from  those  loving  Apostles, 
who  through  long  ages,  have  in  the  Catholic 
Church,  repeated  in  their  deeds,  the  fullness 
of  Love,  which  filled  the  breast  of  the  Apos- 
tle John, — far  different  from  the  Fenelons 
and  Paschals  of  the  church, — this  Prelate 
was  a  cold-blooded  and  practical  Atheist. 
Love  of  women,  love  of  wine,  swayed  him 
not.  Lust  of  power  was  his  spring  of  action 
— his  soul.  He  may  have  at  times,  assented 
to  Religion,  but  that  he  believed  in  it  as  an 
awful  verity,  as  a  Truth  worth  all  the  phy- 
sical power  and  physical  enjoyment  in  the 
universe, — the  Prelate  never  had  a  thought 
like  this.  An  ambitious  atheist,  a  Borgia 
without  his  lust,  a  Richelieu  with  all 
of  Richelieu's  cunning,  and  not  half  of 
Richelieu's  intellect,  a  cold-blooded,  practical 
schemer  for  his  own  elevation  at  any  cost, — 
such  was  the  Prelate.  Talk  to  him  of  Christ 
as  a  consoler,  as  a  link  between  crippled 
humanity  and  a  better  world,  as  of  a  friend 
who  meets  you  on  the  dark  highway  of  life, 
and  takes  you  from  sleet  and  cold,  into  the 


light  of  a  dear,  holy  home, — talk  to  him  of 
the  love  \Yhich  imbues  and  makes  alive 
every  word  from  the  lips  of  Christ, — ha  1  ha  ! 
Your  atheistical  Prelate  would  laugh  at  the 
thought.  He  was  a  worldling.  Risen  from 
the  very  depths  of  poverty,  he  despised  the 
poor  from  whom  he  sprung.  For  years  a 
loud  and  even  brawling  advocate  of  justice 
for  Ireland, — an  ecclesiastical  stump  orator ; 
a  gatherer  of  the  pennies  earned  by  the  hard 
hand  of  Irish  labor, — he  was  the  man  to 
blaspheme  her  cause  and  villify  its  honest 
advocates,  when  her  dawn  of  Revolution 
darkened  into  night  again.  He  was  the 
pugilist  of  the  Pulpit,  the  gladiator  of  con- 
troversy, always  itching  for  a  fight,  never  so 
happy  as  when  he  set  honest  men  to  clutch- 
ing each  other  by  the  throat.  Secure  in  his 
worldly  possessions,  rich  from  the  princely 
revenues  derived  from  the  poor — the  hard 
working  poor  of  his  church, — a  tyrant  to  the 
parish  priests  who  were  so  unfortunate  as  to 
be  subjected  to  his  sway,  by  turns  the  Dema- 
gogue of  Irish  freedom  and  the  Mouchard  of 
Austrian  despotism,  he  was  a  vain,  bad,  cun- 
ning, but  practical  man,  this  Atheist  Prelate 
of  the  Roman  Church. 

"  Now,  what  think  you  of  our  plans  and 
our  prospects  ?"  said  the  Prelate,  trium- 
phantly— "  can  we  not,  using  New  York  as 
the  center  of  our  oiDcrations,  the  Ballot  Box, 
social  dissension  and  sectarian  warfare  as  the 
means,  can  we  not,  mould  the  New  World 
to  our  views,  and  make  it  Rome,  Rome,  in 
every  inch  of  its  soil  ?" 

The  Legate  responded  quietly: 
I  see  but  one  obstacle — " 

"  Only  one  ;  that  is  well — " 

"And  that  obstacle  is  not  so  much  the 
memory  of  the  American  Past,  which  some 
of  these  foolish  Americans  still  consider  holy 
— not  so  much  the  memory  of  Penn  the 
Quaker ;  Calvert  the  Catholic,  who  planted 
their  silly  dogma  of  Brotherly  love  on  the 
Delaware  and  St.  Mary's,  in  the  early  dawn 
of  this  country, — not  so  much  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence,  nor  the  blood-marks 
which  wrote  its  principles,  on  the  soil  from 
Bunker  Hill  to  Savannah,  from  Brandywine 
j  to  Yorktown, — not  so  much  the  history  of 
j  the  sixty-eight  years,  which  in  the  American 
!  Republic,  have  shown  a  growth,  an  enterprise, 
I  a  development  never  witnessed  on  God'3 


70 


earth  before, — not  so  much  all  this,  as  the 
single  obstacle  which  I  now  lay  on  the  table 
before  you,"' 

And  from  the  breast  of  his  coat  he  drew 
forth  a  small,  thin  volume,  which  he  laid 
upon  the  table  : 

''This!"  cried  the  Prelate,  as  though  a 
bomb-shell  had  burst  beneath  his  chair ; 
**  This  !  Why  this  is  the  four  Gospels  ac- 
cording to  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke  and  John  !" 

"Precisely.  And  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke 
and  John,  those  simple  fellows  are  the  very 
ones  whom  we  have  most  to  fear." 

"  But  I  have  driven  this  book  from  the 
Common  Schools  !"  cried  the  Prelate,  rather 
testily. 

"  Have  you  driven  it  from  the  home  ?" 
quieth^  tiskcd  the  Legate. 

The  Prelate  absently  toyed  with  his  cross, 
but  did  not  answer. 

"  CaJi  j'-ou  drive  it  from  the  home  ?"  asked 
the  Legate. 

The  Prelate  gazed  at  the  portrait  of  Car- 
dinal Dubois,  and  then  at  Richelieu's,  but  did 
not  reply. 

"  Do  you  not  see  the  difiiculty?"  continued 
the  Legate,  "so  long  as  Matthew,  Mark, 
Luke  and  John,  sit  down  by  the  firesides  of 
the  people,  making  themselves  a  part  and 
parcel  of  the  dearest  memciies  of  every 
household, — so  long  w^e  may  chop  logic, 
weave  plots,  traffic  in  casuistry,  but  in  vain  !" 

"  True,  that  book  is  capable  of  much  mis- 
chief," said  the  Prelate  ;  "  it  has  caused  more 
revolutions  than  you  could  count  in  a  year." 

"In  Spain,  where  this  book  is  scarcely 
known,  in  Itah'-,  where  to  read  it  is  impri- 
sonment and  chains,  we  can  get  along  well 
enough,  but  here,  in  the  United  States,  Avhere 
this  book  is  a  fireside  book  in  every  home, 
the  first  book  that  the  child  looks  into,  and 
the  last  that  the  dying  old  man  listens  to,  as 
liis  ear  is  growing  deaf  with  death, — here 
what  shall  we  do  ?  You  know  that  it  is  a 
Democratic  book  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"That  it  is  so  simple  in  its  enunciations 
of  brotherly  love,  equality,  and  the  love  of  ; 
God  for  all  mankind,  so  simple  and  yet  so 
strong,  that  it  has  required  eighteen  centuries  \ 
of  scholastic  casuistry  and  whole  tons  of  j 
volumes,  devoted  to  theological  special  plead-  . 
ing,  to  darken  its  simple  meaning  ?"  | 


j     "  Yes,  yes." 

I     "That  in  its  portraitures  of  Christ,  there 
I  is  something  that  stirs  the  hearts  of  the 
humblest,  and   sets  them  on  fire  with  the 
I  thought,  *  I   too,  am  not   a  beast,   but  a 
I  child  of  God,  destined  to  have  a  home 
j  here  and  an  immortality  hereafter  ?'  That 
its   profound  contempt  of  riclies  and  of 
I  mere  worldly  power, — its  injunctions  to  the 
'  rich,  'sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  to  the  poor  ;' 
its  pictures  of  Christ,  coming  from  the  work- 
man's bench,  and  speaking,  acting,  doing  and 
dying,  so  that  the  masses  might  no  longer  be 
the  sport  of  priest  or  king,  but  the  recreated 
men  and  women  of  a  recreated  social  world  ; 
that  in  all  this,  it  has  caused  more  revolu- 
tions, given  rise  to  more  insurrections,  level- 
ed more  deadly  blows  at  absolute  authority, 
than  all  other  books  that  have  been  written 
since  the  Avorld  began  ?" 

"Yes  —  y-e-s  —  y-e-s,"  said  the  Prelate. 
"  True,  true,  a  mischievous  book.  But  how 
Avould  you  remedy  the  evil  ?" 

"That's  the  question,"  said  the  Legate, 
dryly. 

After  a  long  pause  they  began  to  talk  con- 
cerning the  mission  of  San  Luis  in  California 
— its  fertile  hills  and  valleys,  rich  in  the 
olive,  fig,  grape,  orange  and  pomegranate, — 
and  of  the  thousand  acres  of  han-en  land, 
claimed  alike  by  the  Jesuits  and  Dr.  Martin 
Fiilmer. 

"  The  claim  of  the  Fathers,  to  the  mission- 
house  and  lands  of  San  Luis,  is  established 
then  ?"  said  the  Prelate. 

"  It  has  been  acknowledged  by  the  Mexi- 
can Government,"  wtis  the  reply  of  the 
Legate. 

"Anu  the  claim  to  the  thousand  barren 
acres  ?" 

"It  rests  in  my  hands,"  replied  the  Le- 
gate :  "  by  a  train  of  circumstances  altogether 
natural,  although  to  some  they  may  appear 
singular,  it  is  in  my  power  to  decide,  whether 
these  thousand  barren  acrts  shall  oeiong  to 
our  Church  or  to  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer."' 

"  And  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  which  way 
your  verdict  will  fall ;"  the  Prelate's  eyes 
sparkled  and  a  smile  lit  up  his  harsh  fea- 
tures. 

"  These  acres  arc  barren,  barren  so  far  as 
the  fig,  the  orange,  the  vine,  the  pome- 
granate are  concerned,  barren  even  of  the 


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71 


slightest  portion  of  shrubbery  or  verdure,  but 
rich—" 

"Rich  in  gold  !"  ejaculated  the  Prelate, 
folding  his  arms  and  fixing  his  eyes  musingly 
upon  the  fire, — "  gold  sufiicient  to  pave  my 
way  from  this  chair  to  the  Papal  throne 
he  muttered  to  himself.  "'In  Rome,"  he 
said  aloud,  "I  had  an  opportunity  to  exa- 
mine the  records  of  the  various  missions, 
established  by  our  Church  in  California  ;  and 
they  all  contain  traditions  of  incredible  stores 
of  gold,  hidden  under  the  rocks  and  sands  of 
California.  Does  your  experience  confirm 
those  traditions  ?" 

"  I  have  traversed  that  land  from  the  Sier- 
ra Nevada  to  the  Pacific,  and  from  North  to 
South,"  replied  the  Legate,  "  and  it  is  my 
opinion,  based  on  facts,  that  California  is 
destined  to  exercise  an  influence  upon  the 
course  of  civilization  and  the  fate  of  nations, 
such  as  has  not  been  felt  for  a  thousand 
years." 

He  paused,  as  if  collecting  in  his  mind,  in 
one  focus,  a  panorama  of  the  varied  scenery, 
climate,  productions,  of  the  region  between 
the  snows  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  and  the 
Pacific.  Then,  while  his  pale  face  flushed 
with  excitement,  and  his  bright  eyes  grew 
even  yet  more  vivid  in  their  luster,  he  con- 
tinued : 

"  The  bowels  of  the  land  are  rich  in  gold," 
he  said,  in  that  low-toned  but  musical  voice. 
"  It  is  woven  in  the  seams  of  her  rocks.  It 
impregnates  her  soil.  It  gleams  in  the  sand 
of  her  rivers.  Gold,  gold,  gold, — such  as 
Banker  never  counted,  nor  the  fancy  of  a 
Poet,  ever  dreamed  of.  Deep  in  her  caverns 
the  ore  is  shining  ;  upon  her  mountain  sides 
it  flings  back  the  rays  of  the  sun  ;  her  forest 
trees  are  rooted  in  gold.  Could  you  fathom 
her  secrets,  you  would  behold  gold  enough 
to  set  the  world  mad.  Men  would  leave 
their  homes,  and  all  that  makes  life  dear, 
and  journey  over  land  and  sea,  by  hundreds 
of  thousands,  in  pilgrimage  to  this  golden 
land.  The  ships  of  the  crusaders  would, 
whiten  every  sea,  their  caravans  would  belt 
every  desert.  The  whole  world,  stirred  into 
avaricious  lust,  would  gravitate  to  this  rock 
of  gold." 

Turning  to  the  Prelate,  he  said  abruptly  : 
"Did  you  ever  attempt  to  unravel  the 
supGi-stition  of  Gold  ?" 
5 


"  The  superstition  of  Gold  ?"  echoed  the 
Prelate. 

"  Yes,  superstition  of  gold.  For  that  wide- 
sjDread  opinion  in  regard  to  the  value  of  gold, 
is  one  of  the  most  incredible  superstitions 
that  ever  damned  the  soul  of  man.  It  ob- 
tains in  all  ages  and  on  every  shore.  In  the 
days  of  the  Patriarchs,  and  in  the  days  of  the 
Bankers, — among  the  sleekly-attired  people 
of  civilized  races,  and  among  savage  hordes, 
naked  as  the  beasts, — everywhere  and  in  all 
ages,  this  suiDerstition  has  obtained,  and 
crushed  mankind,  not  with  an  iron,  but 
with  a  golden  rod.  (There  are  exceptions, 
I  grant,  as  in  the  case  of  the  North  American 
Indians,  and  other  savage  tribes,  but  it  can- 
not be  denied,  that  this  superstition  which 
fixes  a  certain  value  on  gold,  has  overspread 
the  earth,  in  all  ages,  as  universal  as  the  very 
air.)  What  religion  has  ruled  so  absolutely 
and  reigned  so  long,  as  this  deep-implanted 
golden  superstition, — this  Catholic  religion 
of  the  yellow  ore  ?" 

"  But  gold  is  valuable  in  itself,"  interrupt- 
ed the  Prelate — "  it  is  something  more  than 
the  representative  of  labor ;  in  a  thousand 
respects  it  surpasses  all  other  metals.  It  is 
an  article  of  merchandise,  a  part  of  com- 
merce ;  even  were  it  not  money,  it  would 
always  bring  more  money  than  any  other 
metal." 

"  This  is  often  said,  and  is  plausible.  Ad- 
mit all  you  assert,  and  the  question  occurs, 
'  Why  should  it  he  so  P  When  you  say  that 
gold  is  the  most  precious  of  all  metals,  an 
article  of  value  in  itself^  as  well  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  labor,  you  assert  a  fact,  but  you 
do  not  explain  that  fact.  Far,  far  from  it. 
Bull  why  should  it  be  so  ?  What  use  has  it 
been  to  man,  that  it  should  receive  this  high 
distinction  ?  Iron,  lead,  copper — all  of  these 
are  a  million  fold  more  useful  than  gold — 
No — reflect  a  little  while.  Bend  all  you? 
thought  to  the  subject.  Track  the  yellow- 
ore  through  all  ages,  and  at  last,  you  must 
come  to  the  conclusion,  that  the  value  placed 
upon  gold  is  a  superstition,  as  vast  as  it  is 
wicked, — a  superstition  which  has  cnished 
more  hearts  and  damned  more  souls,  than  all 
the  (so  called)  Religious  superstitions  that 
smear  the  page  of  history  with  blood.  That 
such  a  superstition  exists,  would  alone  con- 
vince me  of  the  existence  of  an  embodied 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


Devil,  who,  perpetually  at  war  with  God, 
does  with  a  direct  interference,  derange  his 
laws,  and  crush  the  hopes  of  his  children." 

For  a  moment,  lie  shaded  his  eyes  with 
his  hand,  while  the  Prelate  gazed  upon  him, 
with  something  of  surprise  in  his  look. 

**  Can  you  estimate  the  evils  which  have 
flowed  from  this  superstition  ?  No.  The 
reason  falters,  the  imagination  shudders  :  at 
the  very  thought  you  are  bewildered,  — 
dumb.  But  think  of  it  as  you  will, — entan- 
gle yourself  among  the  sophistries  which 
{ittempt  to  explain,  but  in  reality  onl};  dark- 
en it, — view  it  as  a  political  economist,  a 
banker,  a  merchant,  or  a  worker  in  precious 
metals, — and  you  only  plunge  the  deeper 
into  the  abyss  of  doubt  and  bewilderment. 
"Ycfu  cannot  explain  this  superstition,  unless 
you  mount  higher,  and  grasp  that  great  law 
of  God,  which  says,  forever,  *  It  is  wicked  for 
ONE  MAN  to  clothe  himself  with  luxury,  at  the 
expense  of  the  sweat  and  Mood  of  another  man, 
wJu)  is  his  Brother.'  Grasp  this  truth  firmly; 
tmderstand  it  in  all  its  bearings, — and  you 
discern  the  source  of  the  Golden  superstition; 
for  it  had  its  source,  in  that  depraved  idle- 
ness which  seeks  luxury  at  the  expense  of 
human  suffering, — which  coins  enjoyment  for 
a  few  men,  on  the  immeasurable  wretched- 
ness of  entire  races  of  mankind.  The  first 
man  who  sought  to  rob  his  Brother  of  the 
fruits  of  his  labor,  and  of  his  place  on  the 
earth,  was  doubtless  the  inventor  of  the 
golden  superstition  ;  for  turn  and  twist  it  as 
you  will,  gold  is  only  valuable  because  it 
represents  labor.  All  its  value  springs  from 
that  cause.  It  represents  labor  already  done, 
and  it  represents  labor  that  is  to  be  done,  and 
therefore,  —  therefore  only,  —  is  it  valuable. 
And  it  is  the  most  convenient  engine  by  which 
the  idlers  of  the  World  can  enslave  the 
laborers — therefore  it  has  always  retained  its 
value.  Backed  by  the  delusion  which  fixes 
tfpon  it  a  certain  value,  and  makes  it  more 
precious  than  the  blood  of  hearts,  or  the  sal- 
vation of  the  entire  human  race,  gold  will 
continue  to  be  the  great  engine  for  the  de- 
struction of  that  race — for  its  moral  and 
physical  damnation — just  as  long  as  the  few 
continue  to  live  upon  the  wretchedness  of 
the  many.  Once  destroy  this  superstition, — 
take  away  from  gold  its  certain  value — ^make 
that  value  vague,  uncertain,  and  subject  to 


as  many  changes  as  a  bank  note, — and  you 
will  have  wrested  the  lash  from  the  hand  of 
the  oppressor  all  over  the  world." 

These  words  made  a  deep  impression  upon 
the  Prelate,  an  impression  which  he  dared 
not  trust  himself  to  frame  in  words.  Sup- 
pressing an  exclamation  that  started  to  his 
lips,  he  asked  in  a  calm  conversational  tone — 

"  Will  the  discovery  of  the  golden  land 
have  this  effect  ?" 

It  was  in  a  saddened  tone,  and  with  a 
downcast  eye,  that  the  Legate  replied  : 

"Ah,  that  is,  indeed,  a  fearful  question, 
A  question  that  may  well  make  one  shudder. 
One  of  two  things  must  happen.  From  the 
Tocks  and  sands  of  the  golden  land,  the 
oppressors  of  the  world  will  derive  new 
means  of  oppression,  or  from  those  rocks  and 
sands,  will  come  the  instrument,  which  is  to 
lift  up  the  masses  and  shake  the  oppressors 
to  the  dust.  What  shall  be  the  result  ? 
Shall  new  and  more  damning  chains,  for 
human  hearts,  be  forged  upon  the  gold  of 
these  sands  and  rocks  ?  Or,  tottering  among 
these  rocks  and  sands,  shall  poor  humanity 
at  last  discover  the  instrument  of  her  re- 
demption ?    God  alone  can  tell." 

The  Prelate  was  silent.  Folding  his  hands 
he  surveyed  the  pallid  visage  of  the  Legate, 
with  a  look  hard  to  define. 

"  The  first  wind  that  blows  intelligence 
from  this  land  of  gold,  will  convulse  the 
world.  A  few  years  hence,  and  these  sands, 
now  sparkling  with  ore,  will  be  white  with 
human  skeletons.  Thousands  and  hundreds 
of  thousands  will  rush  to  seek  the  glittering 
ore,  and  find  a  grave,  in  the  mud  by  the 
rivers'  banks  ;  hundreds  of  thousands  will  lie 
unburied  in  the  depths  of  trackless  deserts, 
or  in  the  darkness  of  trackless  ravines ;  the 
dog  and  the  wolf  will  feed  well  upon  human 
hearts." 

Suppressing  the  emotion  aroused,  by  a  por- 
tion of  the  Legate's  remarks,  the  Prelate 
asked  : 

"And  the  thousand  barren  acres  contain 
incredible  stores  of  gold  ?" 

"  Gold  sufiicient  to  afi'ect  the  destiny  of 
one-half  the  globe,"  replied  the  Legate : 
"  gold,  that  employed  in  a  good  cause,  would 
bless  and  elevate  millions  of  the  oppressed, 
or  devoted  to  purposes  of  evil,  might  curse 
the  dearest  rights  of  half  the  human  race." 


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UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


73 


"  And  it  is  in  your  power  to  establish  the 
right  of  our  Church  to  these  lands  ?" 

"  It  is.  A  word  from  me,  and  the  thing 
is  done." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  Prelate,  slowly, 
and  measuring  every  word, — "some  portions 
of  your  remarks  excite  my  curiosity.  You 
speak  of  the  oppressed,  and  of  the  oppressors. 
Now, — now, — from  any  lips  but  yours,  these 
words,  and  the  manner  in  which  you  use 
them,  would  sound  like  the  doctrines  of  the 
French  Socialists.  What  do  you  precisely 
mean  by  '  oppressed,'  —  and  who,  in  your 
estimation,  are  the  *  oppressors  P  " 

The  Legate  rose  from  his  scat,  and  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  the  Prelate's  face  : 

"  There  are  many  kinds  of  oppressors,  but 
the  most  infamous,  are  those  who  use  the 
-Church  of  God,  as  the  engine  of  their  atro- 
,cious  crimes." 

This  remark  fell  like  a  thunderbolt. 

The  Prelate  slowly  rose  from  his  chair, 
his  face  flushed  and  his  chest  heaving. 

"  Sir  !"  he  cried  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

"  Nay — you  need  not  raise  your  voice, — 
jnuch  less  confront  me  with  that  frowning 
brow.  You  know  me  and  know  the  position 
which  I  hold.  You  know  that  I  am  above 
yeur  reach, — that,  perchance,  a  word  from 
me,  uttered  in  the  proper  place,  might  stop 
your  career,  even  at  the  threshold.  I  know 
you,  and  know  that  you  belong  to  the  party, 
which,  for  ages,  has  made  our  church  the  in- 
strument of  the  most  infernal  wrongs — " 

"  Sir  !"  again  ejaculated  the  Prelate. 

"A  party,  Avhose  noblest  monument  is 
made  of  the  skeletons,  the  racks  and  thumb- 
screws of  the  Inquisition,  and  whose  history 
can  only  be  clearly  read,  save  by  the  tor^- 
light  of  St.  Bartholomew — " 

"  This  from  you,  sir, — " 

"A  party  whose  avowed  atheism  pro- 
duced the  French  Revolution,  and  whose 
cloaked  atheism  is  even  now  sowing  the 
seeds  of  social  hell-fire,  in  this  country  and 
in  Europe — " 

"  I  swear,  sir — " 

"  Hear  me,  sir,  for  I  am  only  here  to  read 
you  a  plain  lesson.  You,  and  men  like  you, 
may  possibly  convert  the  Church  once  more 
into  the  instrument  of  ferocious  absolutism 
and  the  engine  of  colossal  murder,  but  re- 
member— " 


He  flung  his  coat  around  him,  and  stood 
erect,  his  face  even  more  deathly  pale  than 
usual,  his  eyes  shining  with  clear  and  intense 
light.  There  was  a  grandeur  in  his  attitude 
and  look. 

"  Remember,  even  in  the  moments  of  your 
bloodiest  triumphs,  that  even  within  the 
Church  of  Rome,  swayed  by  such  as  you, 
there  is  another  Church  of  Rome,  composed 
of  men,  who,  when  the  hour  strikes,  will 
sacrifice  everything  to  the  cause  of  humanity 
and  God." 

These  w^ords  were  pronounced  slowly  and 
deliberately,  with  an  emphasis  Avhich  drove 
the  color  from  the  Prelate's  cheek. 

"  Think  of  it,  within  Rome,  a  higher, 
mightier  Rome, — within  the  order  of  Jesuits, 
a  higher  and  mightier  order  of  Jesuits — and 
whenever  you,  and  such  as  you,  turn,  you  will 
be  met  by  men,  who  have  sworn  to  use  the 
Church,  as  the  instrument  of  human  progress, 
or  to  drive  forward  the  movement  over  its 
ruins." 

He  moved  to  the  door,  but  lingered  for  a 
moment  on  the  threshold  : 

"  It  is  a  great  way,"  he  said,  "  from  the 
turnpike  to  the  Vatican." 

This  he  said,  and  disappeared.  (The  Pre- 
late had  risen  from  the  position  of  breaker  of 
stone  on  the  public  road,  only  to  use  all  his 
efforts  to  crush  and  damn  the  masses  from 
whom  he  sprung.) 

And  the  Prelate  was  now  left  alone,  to 
pick  up  the  thunderbolt  which  had  fallen 
at  his  feet. 

Half  an  hour  after  this  scene,  the  Legate 
once  more  ascended  the  steps  of  the  Astor 
House,  his  cloak  w^ound  tightly  about  his 
slender  form,  his  face, — and  perchance  the 
emotions  written  there,  —  cast  into  shadow 
by  his  broad  sombrero.  He  was  crossing  the 
hall,  flaring  with  gas-lights,  when  he  was 
aroused  from  his  reverie  by  these  words,  —  ■ 

"My  lord,  —  " 

The  speaker  was  a  man  of  some  forty- 
five  years,  with  a  hard,  unmeaning  face,  and 
vague  gray  eyes.  His  ungainly  form,  —  for 
he  was  round-shouldered,  knock-kneed  and 
clumsily  footed,  —  was  clad  in  black,  varied 
only  by  a  strip  of  dirty  white  about  his  bull- 
like neck.  As  he  stood  obsequiously,  hat  in 
hand,  his  bald  crown,  scantily  encircled  by  a 
few  hairs  of  no  pai'ticular  color,  was  revealed; 


74: 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


and  also  his  low,  broad  forehead.    He  looked 
very  much  like  an  ecclesiastic,  whom  habits 
of  passive  obedience  have  converted  into  a 
human  fossil. 
"My  lord,  —  " 

"Pshaw,  Michael,  none  of  that  nonsense 
here.  Have  you  obeyed  the  directions 
which  I  gave  you  before  I  left  the  steamer 
to-night  ?  " 

"I  have,  my  — "  'lord,'  he  was  about  to 
say,  but  he  substituted  *  your  excellence  ! ' — 
Your  country  seat,  near  the  city,  is  in  good 
order.  Everything  has  been  prepared  in  an- 
ticipation of  your  arrival.  I  have  just  re- 
turned from  it,  —  Mary  vale,  I  think  you  call 
it?" 

"Mary vale,"  replied  the  Legate,  "Did 
you  tell  Felix  to  have  my  carriage  ready  for 
me,  after  midnight,  at  the  place  and  the 
hour  which  I  named  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord,'!  —  and  Michael  bowed 
low. 

"  No  more  of  that  nonsense,  I  repeat  it. — 
This  is  not  the  country  for  it.  How  did  you 
dispose  of  Cain  ?  " 

"  I  left  Cain  at  the  country  seat." 

"  It  is  well,"  said  the  Legate,  and  having 
spoken  further  words  to  Michael,  in  a  lower 
tone,  he  dismissed  him,  and  went  silently  to 
his  chamber. 

And  Cain  of  whom  they  spoke.  We 
shall  see  Cain  after  a  while. 

CHAPTER  VL 

"  JOANNA." 

At  the  hour  of  eleven  o'clock,  on  the 

night  of  December  23d,  1844,  .  A 

gentleman  of  immense  wealth,  who  occupied 
his  own  mansion,  in  the  upper  part  of  New 
York,  came  from  his  library,  and  descended 
the  broad  staircase,  which  led  to  the  first 
floor  of  his  mansion.  His  slight  frame  was 
wrapped  in  a  traveling  cloak  and  a  gay  trav- 
eling cap  shaded  his  features.  He  held  a 
carpet-bag  in  his  hand.  Arrived  on  the  first 
floor,  he  entered  a  magnificent  range  of 
apartments  communicating  with  each  other 
by  folding-doors,  and  lighted  by  an  elegant 
chandelier.  Around  him,  wherever  he  turn- 
ed, was  everything  in  the  form  of  luxury, 
that  the  eye  could  desire  or  the  power  of 
'Wealth  procure.  Thick  carpets,  massive  mir- 


rors, lofty  ceiling,  w^alls  broken  here  and 
there  with  a  niche  in  which  a  marble  statue 
was  placed  —  these  and  other  signs  of 
wealth,  met  his  gaze  at  every  step. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  fine  personal  ap- 
pearance, and  refined  tastes.  Without  a 
profession,  he  employed  his  immense  wealth 
in  ministering  to  his  taste  for  the  arts.  The 
only  son  of  a  man  of  fortune,  educated  to 
the  habit  of  spending  money  without  earn- 
ing it,  he  had  man-ied  about  two  years 
before,  an  exceedingly  beautiful  woman,  the 
only  daughter  of  a  wealthy  and  aristocratic 
family. 

And  far  back  in  a  nook  of  this  imposing 
suite  of  apartments,  where  the  light  of  the 
chandelier  is  softened  by  the  shadows  ot 
statue  and  marble  pillar,  sits  this  wife,  a 
woman  in  the  prime  of  early  womanhood. — 
Her  shape,  at  the  same  time  tall,  rounded, 
and  commanding,  is  enveloped  in  a  loose 
wrapper,  which  seems  rather  to  float  about 
her  form,  than  to  gird  it  closely.  Her  face  is 
bathed  in  tears.  As  her  husband  approaches 
she  rises  and  confronts  him  with  a  blonde 
countenance,  fair  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 
That  face,  beaming  with  young  loveliness,  is 
shadowed  with  grief. 

"  Must  you  go,  indeed,  my  husband  ?  "  — 
and  clad  in  that  flowing  robe,  she  rests  her 
hands  upon  his  shoulder,  and  looks  tearfully 
into  his  face. 

His  cloak  falls  and  discloses  his  slight  and 
graceful  form.  He  removes  his  traveling 
cap,  and  his  wife  may  freely  gaze  upon  that 
dark-complexioned  face,  whose  regular  fea- 
tures, remind  you  of  an  Apollo  cast  in 
bronze.  His  dark  eyes  flash  with  clear  light 
a^he  raises  one  hand,  and  jDlaces  it  upon  his 
fffehead,  and  twines  her  fingers  among  the 
curls  of  his  jet-black  hair. 

Take  it  all  in  all,  it  is  an  interesting  pic- 
ture, centered  in  that  splendid  room,  where 
everything  breathes  luxury  and  wealth  — 
the  slender  form  of  the  young  husband  clad 
in  black,  contrasted  with  the  imposing  figure 
of  the  young  wife,  enveloped  in  drapery  of 
flowing  white. 

"  I  must  go,  wife.  Kiss  me." — She  bent 
back  his  head  and  gazing  upon  him  long 
and  earnestly,  suff"ered  her  lips  to  join  his, — 
"  I'll  be  back  before  Christmas." 

"  You  are  sure  that  you  must  go  ?  "  she 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


75 


exclaimed,  tojdng  with  the  curls  of  his  dark 
hair. 

"  You  saw  the  letter  which  I  received  from 
Boston.  My  poor  brother  lies  at  the  point  of 
death.  I  must  see  him,  Joanna,  —  you. 
know  how  it  pains  me  to  be  absent  from  you, 
only  for  a  day,  —  but  I  must  go.  I'll  be 
back  by  Christmas  morning." 

"  Will  you,  indeed,  though,  Eugene  ?  "  — 
she  wound  her  arms  about  his  neck  —  "  You 
know  how  drearily  the  time  passes  without 
you.  0,  how  I  shall  count  the  hours  until 
you  return ! "  And  at  every  word  she 
smoothed  his  forehead  with  her  hand,  and 
touched  his  mouth  with  those  lips  which 
bloomed  with  the  ripeness  and  purity  of 
perfect  womanhood. 

"  I  must  go,  Joanna,  "  —  and  convulsed  at 
the  thought  of  leaving  this  young  wife,  even 
for  a  day,  the  husband  gathered  her  to  his 
breast,  and  then  seizing  his  cloak  and  carpet- 
bag, hurried  from  the  room.  His  steps  were 
heard  in  the  hall  without,  and  presently  the 
sound  of  the  closing  door  reached  the  ears 
of  the  young  wife. 

An  expression  of  intense  sorrow  passed 
over  her  face,  and  she  remained  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  room,  her  hand  clasped  over  her 
Doble  bust,  and  her  head  bowed  in  an  atti- 
tude'of  deep  melancholy. 

"He  is  gone,"  she  murmured,  and  passing 
through  the  spacious  apartment,  she  travers- 
sd  the  hall,  and  ascended  the  broad  stair- 
way. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairway  was  a  large 
and  roomy  apartment,  warmed  (like  every 
room  in  the  mansion)  from  an  invisible 
source,  which  gave  a  delightful  temperature 
to  the   atmosphere.    There  was  a  sn^all 
workstand  in  the  midst  of  the  apartment, 
m  which  stood  a  lighted  candle.    A  servant 
maid  was  sleeping  with  her  head  upon  tbe  ' 
table,  and  one  hand  resting  upon  a  cradle  at 
tier  side.    In  that  cradle,  above  the  verge  of  \ 
a  silken  coverlet,  appeared  the  face  of  a  j 
cherub  boy,  fast  asleep,  with  a  rose  on  his  j 
cheek,  and  ringlets  of  auburn  hair,  tangled  j 
about  his  forehead,  white  as  alabaster. 

This  room  the  young  mother  entered,  and  \ 
treading  on  tiptoe,  she  approached  the  era-  ; 
die  and  bent  over  it,  until  her  lips  touched 
the  forehead  of  the  sleeping  boy.  And 
when  she  rose  again  there  wa;3  a  tear  upon  ; 


his  cheek,  —  it  had  fallen  from  the  blue  eye 
of  the  mother. 

Retiring  noiselessly,  she  sought  her  own 
chamber,  where  a  taper  was  dimly  burning 
before  a  mirror.  By  that  faint  light  you 
might  trace  the  luxurious  appointment  of  the 
place,  —  a  white  bed,  half  shadowed  in  an 
alcove  —  a  vase  of  alabaster  filled  with  fra- 
grant flowers  —  and  curtains  falling  like 
snow-flakes  along  the  lofty  windows.  The 
idea  of  wifely  purity  was  associated  with 
every  object  in  that  chamber. 

"  I  shall  not  want  you  to-night,  Eliza ;  I 
will  undress  myself,"  exclaimed  Joanna  to  a 
female  servant,  who  stood  waiting  near  the 
mirror.    "  You  may  retire." 

The  servant  retired,  and  the  young  wife 
was  alone.  She  extinguished  the  taper,  and 
all  was  still  throughout  the  mansion.  But  she 
did  not  retire  to  her  bed.  Advancing  in  the 
darkness,  she  opened  a  door  behind  the  bed, 
and  entered  the  bath-room,  where  she  light- 
ed a  lamp  by  the  aid  of  a  perfumed  match 
which  she  found,  despite  the  gloom.  The 
bath-room  was  oval  in  shape,  with  an  arched 
ceiling.  The  walls,  the  ceiling  and  the  floor 
were  of  white  marble.  In  the  center  was  the 
bath,  resembling  an  immense  shell,  sunk  into 
the  marble  floor.  This  place,  without  orna- 
ment or  decoration  of  any  kind,  save  the  pure 
white  of  the  walls  and  floor,  was  pervaded 
by  luxurious  warmth.  The  water  which 
filled  the  shell  or  hollow  in  the  center  of  the 
floor,  emitted  a  faint  but  pungent  perfume. 

She  disrobed  herself  and  descended  into 
the  bath,  sufi"ering  her  golden  hair  to  float 
freely  about  her  shoulders. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
this  beautiful  woman  took  the  light  and 
passed  into  the  bed  chamber.  She  cast  a 
glance  toward  her  bed,  which  had  been  con- 
secrated by  her  marriage,  and  by  the  birth  of 
her  first  and  only  child.  Then  advancing 
toward  a  wardrobe  oFrosewood,  which  stood 
in  a  recess  opposite  the  bed,  she  took  from 
thence  a  dress,  with  which  she  proceeded  to 
encase  her  form.  A  white  robe,  loose  and 
flowing,  with  a  hood  resembling  the  cowl  of 
a  nun.  This  robe  was  of  the  softest  satin. 
She  enveloped  her  form  in  its  folds,  threw 
the  hood  over  her  head,  and  looking  in  the 
mirror,  surveyed  her  beautiful  face,  which, 
glowing  with  warmth,  was  framed  in  her 


76 


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golden  hair,  and  in  tlic  folds  of  the  satin 
cowl. 

She  drew  slippers  of  delicate  satin,  white 
as  her  robe,  upon  her  naked  feet. 

Then,  taking  from  the  wardrobe  a  heavy- 
cloak,  lined  throughout  with  fur,  as  soft  as 
the  satin  which  clad  her  shape,  she  wound 
it  about  her  from  head  to  foot,  and  stood 
completely  buried  in  its  voluminous  folds. 

Once  more  she  listened  :  all  was  still 
throughout  that  mansion,  the  home  of  aristo- 
cratic wealth.  Thus  clad  in  the  silken  robe 
and  coAvl,  covered  in  its  turn  by  the  shape- 
less black  cloak,  this  young  wife,  whose 
limbs  were  glowing  with  the  warmth  of  the 
bath,  whose  person  was  invested  wdth  a  deli- 
cate perfume,  turned  once  more  and  gazed 
upon  her  marriage  bed,  and  a  deep  sigh 
swelled  her  bosom.  She  next  extinguished 
the  light,  and  passing  from  the  chamber, 
descended  the  marble  staircase.  All  w^as 
dark.  She  entered  the  suite  of  apartments 
on  the  first  floor,  which,  adorned  with  pillars, 
communicated  with  each  other  by  folding- 
doors.  The  chandelier  had  been  extinguish- 
ed, and  the  scene  was  wrapt  in  impenetrable 
darkness. 

Standing  in  the  darkness, — her  only  ap- 
parel the  silken  robe,  and  the  thick,  warm 
cloak  which  covered  it,  —  the  young  wife 
trembled  like  a  leaf. 

She  attempted  to  utter  a  word,  but  her 
voice  failed  her. 

"  Joanna !"  breathed  a  voice,  speaking 
near  her. 

"  Beverly !"  answered  the  young  wdfe, 
breathing  the  name  in  a  whisper. 

A  faint  sound  like  a  step,  wdiose  echo  is 
muffled  by  thick  carpets,  and  the  hand  of  a 
man,  clf\sps  the  hand  of  J oanna. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?"  she 
whispered. 

"I  just  entered,"  was  the  answer. 

"  How  ?" 

"  By  the  front  door,  and  the  key  which 
you  gave  me." 

"  0,  I  tremble  so, — I  am  afraid — " 

An  arm  encircled  the  cloak  which  covered 
her,  and  girded  it  tightly  about  her  form. 

*•  Haa  he  gone,  Joanna  ?" 

"  Yes,  Beverh% — half  an  hour  ago." 

"  Come,  then,  let  us  go.  The  carriage  is 
waiting  at  the  next  corner;  and  the  street-lamp 


j  near  the  front  door  is  extinguished.  All  is 
I  dark  without ;  no  one  can  see  us." 

"Are  you  sure,  Beverly — J  tremble  so." 

*'  Come,  Joanna,"  and  through  the  thick 
darkness  he  led  her  toward  the  hall,  sup- 
porting her  form  upon  his  arm. 

"0,  whither  are  you  leading  me,"  she 
whispered  in  a  broken  voice. 

"  Can  you  ask  ?  Dont  you  remember  niy 
note  of  to-day.    To  the  temple,  J  oanna." 

Their  steps  echo  faintly  from  the  entry. 

Then  the  faint  sound  produced  by  the 
careful  closing  of  the  street  door  is  heard. 

A  pause  of  one  or  two  minutes. 

Hark  !    The  rolling  of  carriage  wheels. 

All  is  still  as  death  throughout  the  man- 
sion and  the  street  on  which  it  fronts. 

Hours  pass  away,  and  once  more  the  street 
door  is  unclosed,  and  carefully  closed  again. 
A  step  echoes  faintly  through  the  hall, — very 
faintly, — and  yet  it  can  be  heard  distinctly, 
so  profound  is  the  stillness  which  reigns 
throughout  the  mansion.  It  ascends  the 
marble  staircase,  and  is  presently  heard  cross- 
ing the  threshold  of  the  bed-chamber.  A 
pause  ensues,  and  the  taper  in  front  of  the 
mirror  is  lighted  again,  and  a  faint  ray  steals 
through  the  chamber. 

Eugene  Livingstone  stands  in  front  of 
the  mirror.  He  flings  his  cloak  on  a  chair, 
dashes  his  cap  from  his  brow,  and  Avipes  the 
sweat  from  his  forehead, — although  he  has 
just  left  the  air  of  a  winter  night,  his  fore- 
head is  bathed  in  moisture.  His  slender 
frame  shakes  as  with  an  ague-chill.  His 
eyes  are  unnaturally  dilated  ;  the  white  of 
the  eyeball  may  be  plainly  traced  around  the 
pupil  of  each  eye.  His  lips  are  pressed  toge- 
ther, and  yet  they  quiver,  as  if  with  deathly 
cold. 

He  does  not  utter  a  single  ejaculation. 
A  letter  is  in  his  right  hand,  neatly  folded 
and  scented  with  paclwuli.    It  bears  the  name 
Joanna as  a  superscription.    He  opens  it 
and  reads  its  contents,  traced  in  a  delicate 
hand — 

J  OANNA  

To-night,— at  Twelve.— The  Temple. 

Beverly. 

Having  read  the  brief  letter,  the  husband 
draws  another  from  a  side-pocket :  "  There 
may  be  a  mistake  about  the  handwriting," 
he  murmurs,  "  let  us  compare  them." 


FEOM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


77 


The  second  letter  is  addressed  to  "  Eugene 
Livingstone,  Esq.,"  and  its  contents,  which 
the  husband  traces  by  the  light  of  the  taper, 
are  as  follows : 

New  York,  Bee.  23,  1844. 
Dear  Eugene  : — Sorry  to  hear  that  you 
have  such  sad  news  from  Boston.    Must  you 
go  to-night  ?    Send  me  word  and  I'll  try  to 
go  with  you.    Thine,  ever, 

Beverly  Barron. 

Long  and  intentl}',  the  husband  compared 
these  two  letters.  His  countenance  under- 
went many  changes.  But  there  could  be  no 
ioubt  of  it — both  letters  were  written  by  the 
same  hand. 

"  He  wrote  to  me  early  this  morning,  and  to 
tny  wife  about  an  hour  afterward,  —  as  soon 
as  he  received  my  answer.  I  found  the  let- 
ter to  her  upon  the  floor  of  this  chamber, 
>nly  two  hours  ago." 

He  replaced  both  letters  in  his  vest  pocket. 

Then  taking  the  taper,  he  bent  his  steps 
toward  the  room  at  the  head  of  the  marble 
staircase.  The  young  nurse  was  fast  asleep 
on  the  couch,  near  the  cradle. 

Eugene  bent  over  the  cradle.  Besting  its 
•osy  cheek  on  its  bent  arm,  the  child  was 
sleeping  there,  its  auburn  hair  still  tangled 
ibout  its  forehead.  He  could  not  help  press- 
ng  his  lips  to  that  forehead,  and  a  tear  — 
;he  only  tear  that  he  shed  —  fell  from  his 
lot  eye-ball,  and  sparkled  like  a  pearl  upon 
;he  baby's  cheek. 

Then  Eugene  returned  to  the  bedcham- 
ber, and  sat  down  beside  the  bed,  still  hold- 
.ng  the  taper  in  his  grasp.  The  light  fell 
softly  over  the  unruffled  coverlet. 

"  I  remember  the  night  when  she  first 
crossed  yonder  threshold,  and  slept  in  this 
Ded." 

There  were  traces  of  womanish  weakness 
ipon  his  bronzed  face,  but  he  banished  them 
n  a  moment,  and  the  expression  of  his  eye 
md  lip  became  fixed  and  resolute. 

He  sat  for  five  minutes  with  his  elbow 
)n  his  knee,  and  his  forehead  in  his  hand. 

Then  rising,  he  opened  his  carpet-bag, 
md  took  from  thence  a  black  robe,  with 
.vide  sleeves,  and  a  cowl.  It  took  but  a  mo- 
nent  to  assume  his  robe,  and  draw  the  cowl 
)ver  his  dark  locks.  He  caught  a  glance  at 
[lis  face,  thus  framed  in  the  velvet  cowl,  and  j 


I  started  as  he  beheld  the  contrast  between  its 
ashy  hues  and  t.ie  dark  folds  which  conceal- 
ed it. 

"  '  The  Temple  ! '  "  he  muttered,  and 
pressed  his  hand  against  his  forehead,  —  "I 
believe  I  remember  the  pass  word." 

He  took  a  pair  of  pistols,  and  a  long  slen- 
der dagger,  sheathed  in  silver,  from  the 
carpet-bag,  and  regarded  them  for  a  moment. 

"No,  no,"  he  exclaimed,  "  these  will  not 
avail  for  a  night  like  this." 

Gathering  his  cloak  about  hira,  he  extin- 
guished the  taper,  and  crossed  the  threshold 
of  his  bed-chamber.  His  steps  were  heard 
on  the  stairs,  and  soon  the  faint  jar  of  th^ 
shut  door  was  heard. 

And  as  he  left  the  house,  the  child  in  th.& 
cradle  awoke  from  its  slumber  and  stretched 
forth  its  little  head,  and  in  its  baby  voice 
called  the  name  of  the  young  mother. 

Our  story  now  turns  to  Randolph  and  Es- 
ther. 

CHAPTER  YIL 
the  white  slave  and  his  sister. 
As  the  night  set  in — the  night  of  Decem- 
ber 23d,  1844  —  two  persons  were  seated  in 
the  recess  of  a  lofty  window,  which  com-: 
manded  a  view  of  Broadway.  It  was  the 
window  of  a  drawing-room,  on  the  second 
floor  of  a  four,  storied  edifice,  built  of  brick, 
with  doors  and  window-frames  of  marble. — 
By  the  dim  light  which  prevailed,  it  might 
be  seen  that  the  drawing-room  was  spacious 
and  elegantly  furnished.  Mirrors,  pictures 
and  statues  broke  softly  through  the  twi- 
light. 

Seated  amid  the  silken  curtains  of  the 
window,  these  persons  sat  in  silence  —  the 
man  with  his  arms  folded,  and  his  head 
sunk  upon  his  breast,  the  woman  with  her 
hands  clasped  over  her  bosom,  and  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  face  of  her  companion.  The 
woman  was  very  beautiful ;  one  of  those 
who  are  called  'queenly'  by  persons  who 
have  never  seen  a  live  queen,  and  who  are  ig- 
norant of  the  philosophical  truth,  that  one 
beautiful  woman  is  worth  all  the  queens  in. 
the  universe.  The  man  was  dark-haired,  and 
of  a  complexion  singularly  pale  and  color- 
less ;  there  was  thought  upon  his  forehead, 
and  something  of  an  unpleasant  memory, 
written  in  his  knit  brows  and  compressed  hps. 


78 


FROM  NIGETFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


The  silence  which  had  prevailed  for  half 
an  hour,  was  broken  by  a  whisper  from  the 
lips  of  the  woman  — 

Of  what  are  you  thinking,  Randolph  ?  " 

"  Of  the  strange  man  whom  we  met  at  the 
house  half  way  between  New  York  and 
Philadelphia.  His  name  and  his  personality 
are  wrapt  in  impenetrable  mystery." 

"  Had  it  not  been  for  him  — " 
Ay,  had  it  not  been  for  him,  we  should 
have  been  lost.  You  would  have  become 
the  prey  of  the  —  the  master,  Esther,  who 
owns  you,  and  I,  —  I  —  well,  no  matter,  I 
would  have  been  dead." 

"After  the  scene  in  the  house,  Randolph, 
lie  came  on  with  us,  and  by  his  directions 
•we  took  rooms  at  the  City  Hotel.  From  the 
moment  of  our  arrival,  only  a  few  hours  ago, 
we  did  not  see  him,  until  — " 

"  Until  an  hour  ago.  Then  he  came  into 
our  room  at  the  hotel.    *  Here  is  a  key,'  said 

he,  '  and  your  home  is  No.  ,  Broadway. 

Go  there  at  once,  and  await  patiently  the 
coming  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  December. — 
You  will  find  servants  to  wait  upon  you, 
you  will  find  money  to  supply  your  wants, 
—  it  is  in  the  drawer  of  the  desk  which  you 
will  discover  in  your  bedroom  —  and  most 
of  all,  you  will  there  be  safe  from  the 
attempts  of  your  persecutor.'  These  were 
his  words.  We  came  at  once,  and  find  our- 
selves—  the  servants  excepted  —  the  sole 
tenants  of  this  splendid  mansion." 

"  But  don't  you  remember  his  last  words, 
as  we  left  the  hotel  ?  '  At  the  hour  of  six,' 
said  he,  this  singular  unknown,  '  you  will  be 
waited  on  by  a  much  treasured  friend.'  — 
Who  can  it  be  that  is  to  come  and  see  us  at 
that  hour?" 

"Friend,"  Randolph  echoed  bitterly, 
"  what  ^friend '  have  we,  save  this  personage, 
whose  very  name  is  unknown  to  us  ?  Our 
father  is  dead.  When  I  say  that  I  say  at  once 
that  we  are  utterly  alone  in  the  world." 

"And  yet  there  is  a  career  before  you, 
Randolph,"  faltered  Esther. 

"  A  sj^lendid  career,  ha,  ha,  Esther,  yes  a 
splendid  career  for  the  White  Slave  !  You 
forget,  good  girl,  that  we  have  negro  blood 
in  our  veins.  How  much  wealth  do  you 
think  it  would  require  to  blot  out  the  mem- 
ory of  the  past  ?  Suppose  we  are  successful 
on  the  twenty-fifth  of  December,  —  suppose 


the  mysterious  trustee  of  the  Van  Huyden 
estate  recognizes  us  as  the  children  of  one  of 
the  Seven,  —  suppose  that  we  receive  a  share 
of  this  immense  wealth  —  well,  Esther,  what 
will  it  avail  us  ?  Wherever  we  turn,  the 
whisper  will  ring  in  our  ears,  'They  have 
negro  blood  in  their  veins.  Their  mother 
was  descended  from  the  black  race.  True, 
they  look  whiter  than  the  palest  of  the 
Caucasian  race,  but  —  but'  —  (do  you  hear 
it,  Esther  ?)  *  but  they  have  negro  Hood  in 
their  veins  J  " 

He  started  from  his  chair,  and  his  sister 
saw,  even  by  the  dim  light  which  came 
through  the  half-drawn  window-curtains,  that 
his  chest  heaved,  and  his  face  was  distorted 
by  a  painful  emotion. 

She  also  arose. 

"  Randolph,"  she  whispered,  and  laid  her 
hand  gently  on  his  arm,  "  Randolph,  my 
brother,  I  say  it  again,  come  wealth  or  pover- 
ty, you  have  a  career  before  you.  In  Eu- 
rope we  may  find  a  home,  —  " 

"  Europe  ! "  he  echoed,  "  And  must  we  go 
to  Europe,  in  order  to  be  permitted  to  live  ? 
No,  Esther,  no  !    I  am  an  American,  yes," 

—  and  his  voice,  low  and  deep,  echoed  proud- 
ly through  the  stillness  of  the  dimly- lighted 
room,  —  yes,  I  am  a  Carolinian,  ay,  a  South 
Carolinian  ;  South  Carolina  is  my  home  ; 
while  I  live,  I  will  not  cease  to  assert  my 
right  to  a  place,  ay,  and  no  dishonorable 
place — on  my  native  soil." 

He  passed  his  sister's  arm  through  his 
own,  and  led  her  gently  over  the  carpet, 
which,  soft  as  down,  returned  no  echo  to 
their  tread.  The  lofty  ceiling  stretched 
above  them,  in  the  vague  twilight ;  and  on 
either  hand  were  the  walls  adorned  with 
paintings  and  statues.  The  mirror,  which 
but  dimly  reflected  their  forms,  flashed 
gently  through  the  gloom. 

"  And  J]sther,  there  is  one  reason  why  I 
will  not  become  an  exile,  which  I  have 
never  spoken  to  mortal  ears  —  not  even  to 
yours,  my  sister.  It  was  communicated  to 
me  by  my  father,  before  I  left  for  Europe : 
he  placed  proofs  in  my  possession  which  do 
not  admit  of  denial.  Sister,  my  epistle  !  — 
Here,  in  the  dimly-lighted  room,  to  which 
we  have  been  guided  by  an  unknown  friend, 

—  here,  surrounded  by  mystery,  and  with 
the  marks  of  wealth  all  about  us,  —  here,  as 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 

the  crisis  of  our  fate  draws  near,  let  me 
breathe  the  secret  in  your  ears." 

He  paused  in  the  center  of  the  room.  His 
sister  felt  his  arm  tremble  as  he  drew  her  to 
his  side.  His  voice  betrayed,  in  its  earnest 
yet  faltering  tones,  an  unfathomable  emotion. 
And  Esther  clinging  to  his  side,  and  looking 
up  into  his  face — which  she  could  scarcely 
discern  through  the  gloom — felt  her  bosom 
swell,  and  her  breath  come  painfully  in  gasps, 
as  she  was  made,  involuntarily,  a  sharer  of 
her  brother's  agitation. 

''Randolph,"  she  said,  "what  can  be  the 
secret,  which  you  have  kept  ever  from  me, 
your  sister  ?" 

"I  will  not  leave  this  country,  in  the  first 
place,  because  I  am  of  its  soil,"  he  answered, 
"  and  because,  first  and  last,  it  is  no  common 
right,  which  binds  me  to  my  native  land. 
Come,  Esther,  to  the  window,  where  the 
light  will  help  my  words ;  you  shall  know 
all—" 

He  led  her  to  the  window,  and  drew  from 
beneath  his  vest,  a  miniature,  which  he  held 
toward  the  fading  light. 

"Do  you  trace  the  features?"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"  I  do.  It  is  beautifully  painted,  and  the 
likeness  resembles  a  thousand  others,  that  I 
have  seen  of  the  same  man.  But  what  has 
this  portrait  in  miniature  to  do  with  us  ?" 

"  What  has  it  to  do  with  us  ?  Regard  it 
again,  and  closely,  my  sister.  Do  you  not 
trace  a  resemblance  ?" 

"  Resemblance  to  whom  ?"  Esther  echoed. 
"  Why  it  is  the  portrait  of  ." 

She  repeated  a  name  familiar  to  the  civil- 
ized world. 

"  It  is  his  portrait.  No  one  can  deny  it. 
But  Esther,  again  I  ask  you, — "  his  voice 
sunk  low  and  lower. — "  Do  you  not  trace  a 
resemblance  ?" 

"Resemblance  to  whom?"  she  answered, 
her  tone  indicating  bewildered  amazement. 

"To^  the  picture  of  our  Mother,  which 
you  have  seen  at  Hill-Royal,"  was  Ran- 
dolph's answer. 

Utterly  bewildered,  Esther  once  more  ex- 
amined the  miniature ;  and  an  idea,  so 
strange,  so  wild  that  she  deemed  it  but  the 
idle  fancy  of  a  dream,  began  to  take  shape 
ji  her  brain. 

"  I  am  in  the  dark,  I  know  not  what  you 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT.  79 

mean.  True,  true,  the  face  portrayed  in 
miniature  does,  somewhat,  resemble  our 
mother's  portrait,  but — " 

"  That  miniature,  Esther,  is  the  portrait 
of  the  Head  of  our  Family.  That  man, — " 
again  he  pronounced  the  name, — "  was  the 
father  of  our  mother.  We  are  his  grand- 
children, my  sister." 

Esther  suffered  the  miniature  to  fall  from 
hsr  hand.    She  sank  back  into  a  chair. 

For  a  few  moments,  there  was  a  death-like 
pause,  unbroken  by  a  single  word. 

"  The  grandchildren  of  !"  echoed 

Esther,  at  length.  "You  cannot  mean  it, 
Randolph  ?" 

"Randolph  bent  his  head  until  his  lips 
well-nigh  touched  his  sister's  ear.  At  the 
same  moment  he  clasped  her  hard  with  a 
painful  pressure.  The  words  which  he  then 
uttered  were  uttered  in  a  whisper,  but  every 
word  penetrated  the  soul  of  the  listener. 

"  Esther,  we  are  the  grandchildren  of 
that  man  whose  name  is  on  the  lips  of  the 
civilized  world.  Our  mother  was  his  child. 
His  blood  flows  in  our  veins.  We  are  oi  his 
race ;  his  features  may  be  traced  in  your 
countenance  and  in  mine.  Now  let  them 
cut  and  hack  and  maim  us  :  let  them  lash 
us  at  the  whipping-post,  or  sell  us  in  the 
slave  mart.  At  every  blow  of  the  lash,  we 
can  exclaim,  *  Lash  on !  lash  on !  But 
remember,  you  are  inflicting  this  torture 
upon  no  common  slaves  ;  for  your  whip  at 

every  blow  is  stained  with  the  blood  of  

 .    These  slaves  whom  you  lash  are  his 

grandchildren  !' " 

He  paused,  overcome  by  the  violence  of 
his  emotion.    In  a  moment  he  resumed  ! 

"And  it  is  because  I  am  his  grandson, 
that  I  will  not  exile  myself  from  this  land, 
which  was  his  birthplace  as  it  is  mine. 
Yes,  I  cannot  exile  myself,  for  the  reason 
that  my  grandfather  left  to  my  hands 
the  fulfillment  of  an  awful  trust — of  a  work 
which,  well  fulfilled,  will  secure  the  happi- 
ness of  all  the  races  v/ho  people  the  Ameri- 
can continent.  I  may  become  a  suicide,  but 
an  exile, — never  !" 

"But  our  mother,  was  the  daughter  of 
Colonel  Rawden.  So  the  rumor  ran,  and  so 
you  stated  before  the  Court  of  Ten  Mil- 
lions." 

"  In  that  statement  I  simply  followed  the 


80 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


popular  rumor,  for  tlie  time  for  the  entire 
truth  had  not  yet  come.  But  our  mother 
was  not  the  child  of  Colonel  Rawden.  Her 
mother  was  indeed  Rawden's  slave,  but 
not  one  drop  of  Jlawden's  blood  flows  in 
our  veins.  Colonel  Rawden  was  aware  of 
the  truth ;  well  he  knew  that  Herodia, 
whom  he  sold  to  our  father,  was  the  child 
of  . 

There  was  a  pause  :  and  it  was  not  broken 
until  Esther  spoke  : 

"  You  would  not  like  to  return  to  Europe, 
then  ?" 

"For  one  reason,  and  one  only,  I  would 
like  to  visit  Europe." 
"  And  that  reason  ?" 

"Know,  Esther,  that  at  Florence,  in  the 
course  of  a  hurried  tour  through  Italy,  I 
met  a  gentleman  named  Bernard  Lynn.  His 
native  country  I  never  ascertained  ;  he  was 
near  fifty  years  of  age  ;  gentlemanly  in  his 
exterior,  of  reputed  wealth,  and  accompanied 
by  an  only  daughter,  Eleanor  Lynn.  At 
Florence, — it  matters  not  how, — I  saved  his 
daughter's  life  —  ay,  more  than  life,  her 
honor.  All  his  existence  was  wrapt  up  in 
her ;  you  may,  therefore,  imagine  the  extent 
of  liis  gratitude  to  the  young  American  who 
saved  the  life  of  this  idolized  child." 

"Was  the  girl  grateful,  as  well  as  the 
father  ?" 

"  I  remained  but  a  week  in  their  company, 
and  then  separated,  to  see  them  no  more 
forever.  That  week  was  sufficient  to  assure 
me  that  I  loved  her  better  than  my  life, — 
that  my  passion  was  returned ;  and  could  I 
but  forget  the  negro  blood  which  mingles  in 
my  veins,  I  might  boldly  claim  her  as  my 
own.  Her  father  had  but  one  prominent 
hatred  :  mild  and  gentlemanly  on  all  other 
subjects,  he  was  ferocious  at  the  sight  or 
mention  of  a  negro.  He  regarded  the  Afri- 
can race  as  a  libel  upon  mankind ;  a  link 
between  the  monkey  and  the  man  ;  a  carica- 
ture of  the  human  race  ;  the  work  of  Nature, 
in  one  of  her  unlucky  moods.  Conscious 
that  there  was  negro  blood  in  my  veins,  I 
left  him  abruptly.  With  this  consciousness 
I  could  not  press  my  suit  for  the  hand  of  his 
daughter." 

"  But  you  would  like  to  see  her  again  ?" 

"  Could  I  meet  her  as  an  equal,  yes  !  But 
never  can  I  look  upon  her  face  again.  Don't 


you  see,  Esther,  how  at  every  turn  of  life,  I 
am  met  by  the  fatal  whisper,  'There  is 
negro  hlood  in  your  veins!'  " 

"  She  was  beautiful  ?" 

"  One  of  the  fairest  types  of  the  Caucasian 
race,  that  ever  eye  beheld.  Tall  in  stature, 
her  form  cast  in  a  mould  of  enticing  loveli- 
ness, her  complexion  like  snow,  yet  blushing 
with  roses  on  the  lip  and  check  ;  her  hair, 
brown  in  the  sunlight,  and  dark  in  the  shade; 
her  eyes  of  a  shade  between  brown  and 
black,  and  always  full  of  the  light  of  all- 
abounding  youth  and  hope. — Yes,  she  was 
beautiful,  transcendently  beautiful !  She  had 
the  intellect  of  an  affectionate  but  proud  and 
ambitious  w^oman." 

"  You  saved  her  life  ?" 

"  I  saved  her  honor." 

"  Her  honor  ?" 

"So  beautiful,  so  young,  so  gifted,  she 
attracted  the  attention  of  an  Italian  noble- 
man, who  sued  in  vain  for  hei-  hand.  Foiled 
in  his  efforts  to  obtain  her  in  honorable  mar- 
riage, he  determined  to  possess  her  at  all 
hazards.  One  night,  as  herself  and  her 
father  were  returning  to  Florence,  after  a 
visit  to  Yalambrosa,  the  carriage  was  attacked 
by  a  band  of  armed  ruffians.  The  father 
was  stretched  insensible,  by  a  blow  upon  the 
temple,  from  the  hilt  of  a  sword.  When 
he  recovered  his  senses,  he  was  alone,  and 
faint  with  the  loss  of  blood.  His  daughter 
had  disappeared.  He  made  out,  at  length, 
to  get  back  to  Florence,  and  instituted  a 
search  for  his  child.  His  efforts  were  fruit- 
less. Suspicion  rested  upon  the  rejected 
lover,  but  he  appeared  before  the  father,  and 
to  the  father's  satisfaction  established  hia 
innocence.  At  this  period,  when  the  father 
had  relinquished  all  hope,  I  assumed  the 
disguise  of  a  traveling  student,  aimed  myself 
and  departed  from  Florence.  I  bent  my 
steps  to  the  Appenines.  A  servant  of  the 
nobleman,  impelled  at  once  by  a  bribe,  and 
by  revenge  for  ill-treatment,  had  imparted 
certain  intelligence  to  me ;  upon  this  infor- 
mation I  shaped  my  course.  In  an  obscure 
nook  of  the  Appenines,  separated  from  the 
main  road  by  a  wilderness  frequented  by 
banditti,  I  found  the  daughter  of  Bernard 
Lynn,  She  was  a  prisoner  in  a  miserable 
inn,  which  was  kept  by  a  poor  knave,  in  the 
pay  of  the  robbers.    I  entered  the  room  in 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


81 


which  she  was  imprisoned,  in  time  to  rescue 
her  from  the  nobleman,  who  had  reached 
the  inn  before  me,  and  who  was  about  to 
carry  his  threats  into  force.  Had  I  been  a 
moment  later,  her  honor  would  have  been 
sacrificed.  A  combat  ensued  :  Eleanor  saw 
me  peril  my  life  for  her ;  and  saw  the  villain 
laid  insensible  at  her  feet.  She  fainted  in 
my  arms.  It  matters  not  to  tell  how  I  bore 
her  back  to  her  father,  who  confessed  that  I 
had  done  a  deed,  which  could  never  be 
suitably  rewarded,  although  he  might  sacri- 
fice his  fortune  and  his  life,  in  the  effort  to 
display  his  gratitude." 

"  By  what  name  did  they  know  you  ?" 

"As  Randolph  Royalton,  the  son  of  a 
gentleman  of  South  Carolina.  From  this  I 
am  afraid  the  father  built  false  impressions 
of  my  social  position  and  my  wealth.  Afraid 
to  tell  Eleanor  the  truth,  I  left  them  without 
one  word  of  farewell." 

At  this  moment,  a  door  was  opened,  and 
the  light  of  a  wax  candle,  held  in  the  hand 
of  a  servant  who  occupied  the  doorway, 
flashed  over  the  details  of  the  drawing-room, 
lighting  up  the  scene  with  a  sudden  splen- 
dor. The  servant  was  a  man  of  middle  age 
and  of  a  calm,  sober  look.  He  was  clad  in 
a  suit  of  gray,  faced  with  black  velvet. 

The  light  revealed  the  brother  and  sister 
as  they  stood  in  the  center  of  the  scene ; 
Esther,  clad  in  the  green  habit  which  fitted 
closely  to  her  beautiful  shape,  and  Randolph 
attired  in  a  black  coat,  vest  and  'cravat, 
which  presented  a  strong  contrast  to  his  pal- 
lid visage. 

The  servant  bowed  formally  upon  the 
threshold,  and  advanced,  holdmg  a  salver  of 
silver  in  one  hand  and  the  candle  in  the 
other.  As  soon  as  he  had  traversed  the 
space  betAveen  Randolph  and  the  door,  he 
bowed  again,  and  extended  the  salver,  upon 
which  appeared  a  card,  inscribed  with  a 
name— 

"  Master,  a  gentleman  desires  to  see  you. 
He  is  in  his  carriage  at  the  door.  He  gave 
me  this  card  for  you." 

Randolph  exchanged  glances  with  Esther, 
as  much  as  to  say  "  our  expected  visitor," 
and  then  took  the  card,  and  read  these 
words  : 

"An  old  fnend  desires  to  see  Itand.olph 
Moyalton  and  lis  sister." 


Randolph  started  as  he  beheld  the  hand- 
writing, and  the  blood  rushed  to  his  cheek : 
"  Show  the  gentleman  up  stairs,"  he  said 
quietly. 

The  servant  disappeared,  taking  with  him 
the  light,  and  the  room  was  wrapt  in 
twilight  once  more. 

"  Have  you  any  idea  who  is  this  visitor  ?" 
whispered  Esther. 

"  Hush  !  Do  not  speak  !  Surrounded  by 
mystery  as  we  are,  this  new  wonder  throws 
all  others  completely  into  shade.  I  can 
scarcely  believe  it ;  and  yet,  it  was  Ms  hand- 
writing !    I  cannot  be  mistaken." 

In  vain  did  Esther  ask,  "Whose  hand- 
writing ?"  Trembling  with  anxiety  and  de- 
light, Randolph  listened  intently  for  the 
sound  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 

Presently  there  came  a  sound,  as  of  foot- 
steps ascending  a  stairway,  covered  with 
thick  carpet ;  and  then  the  door  opened  and 
the  servant  stood  on  the  threshold,  light  in 
hand  : 

"  This  way,  sir,  this  way,"  he  exclaimed 
and  entered  :  while  Randolph  and  Esther's 
gaze  was  centered  on  the  doorway ;  the 
servant  in  gray  rapidly  lighted  the  wax  can- 
dles, which  stood  on  the  marble  mantle,  and 
the  spacious  room  was  flooded  with  radiance. 

"Ah,  ha,  my  dear  boy,  have  I  caught  you 
at  last  ?"  cried  a  harsh  but  a  cheerful  voice, 
and  an  elderly  man,  wrapped  in  a  cloak, 
crossed  the  threshold,  and  approached  Ran- 
dolph with  rapid  steps. 

"  Mr.  Lynn  !"  ejaculated  Randolph,  utterly 
astonished. 

"  Yes,  your  old  friend,  whom  you  so  ab- 
ruptly left  at  Florence,  without  so  much  as  a 
word  of  good-bye  !  How  are  you,  ray  dear 
fellow  ?  Give  me  a  shake  of  your  hand. 
Miss  Royalton,  I  presume  ?" 

By  no  means  recovered  from  his  bewilder- 
ment, Randolph  managed  to  present  Mr. 
Bernard  Lynn  to  his  sister,  whom  he  called 
"  Miss  Esther  Royalton." 

The  visitor  gave  his  hat  and  cloak  to  the 
servant,  and  flung  himself  into  an  arm-chair. 
He  was  a  gentleman  of  some  fifty  years, 
dark  complexion,  and  with  masses  of  snow- 
white  hair.  His  somewhat  portly  form  was 
attired  in  a  blue  frock  coat,  beneath  which 
the  collar  of  a  buft"  waistcoat  and  a  black 
stock  were  discernible. 


82 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


"  Come,  come,  Eandolph,  my  boy,  let  me 
chat  with  Miss  Esther,  while  you  attend  to 
your  servant,  who,  if  I  may  jud^e  by  his 
telegraphic  signs,  has  something  to  say  to 
you  in  regard  to  your  household  affairs." 

Eandolph  turned  and  was  confronted  by 
the  servant,  Mr.  Hicks,  who  bowed  low,  and 
said  in  a  tone  which  was  audible  through  the 
room — 

"At  what  hour  will  you  have  dinner 
served  ?"  and  then  added  in  a  whisper,  "  I 
wish  to  speah  with  you  alone." 

"At  seven,  as  I  directed  you,  when  I  first 
arrived,"  replied  Randolph,  and  followed  the 
servant  from  the  drawing-room. 

Mr.  Hicks  led  the  way,  down  the  broad 
staircase,  to  the  spacious  hall  on  the  lower 
floor,  which  was  now  illuminated  by  a  large 
globe  lamp. 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Royalton,"  said  Mr. 
Hicks,  "  for  troubling  you  about  the  dinner 
hour.  That,  if  you  will  excuse  me  for  saying 
so,  was  only  a  pretext.  Your  Agent,  who 
arrived  before  you,  to-day,  and  engaged  my- 
self and  the  other  domestics,  gave  me  espe- 
cial directions,  to  prepare  dinner  to-night,  at 
seven  precisely.  It  was  not  about  the  hour 
of  dinner,  therefore,  that  I  wished  to  see 
you,  for  we  all  know  our  duty,  and  you  may 
rely  upon  it,  that  all  the  appointments  of  this 
mansion,  are  in  good  hands." 

"  Right,  Mr.  Hicks,  right,  may  I  ask  whe- 
ther my  Agent,  who  was  here  to-day,  wore 
an  odd  dress  which  he  sometimes  wears, 
a, — a — " 

"  A  blue  surtout,  with  a  great  many  capes? 
Yes,  sir.  The  fashion  in  the  south,  I  pre- 
sume." 

icas  then  my  unknown  friend  of  the 
half-way-house,"  thought  Randolph :  pres- 
ently, he  said,  "  Why  did  you  call  me  from 
the  drawing-room  ?" 

Mr.  Hicks  bowed  his  formal  bow,  and 
pointed  to  a  door  of  dark  mahogany  : 

"If  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  enter 
that  room,  you  will  know  why  I  called  you." 

And  Mr.  Hicks  bowed  again,  and  retreated 
slowly  from  the  scene. 

Placing  his  hand  upon  the  door,  Randolph 
felt  his  heart  beat  tumultuously  against  his 
breast. 

"  Yesterday,  a  hunted  slave,"  the  thought 
rushed  over  him,  "and  to-day,  the  master  of  i 


a  mansion,  and  with  a  train  of  servants  to 
obey  my  nod  !  Sol,  my  unknown  friend  in 
the  surtout,  with  blue  capes,  was  here  to- 
day, acting  the  part  of  my  '  Agent.'  What 
new  wonder  awaits  mq,  beyond  this  door  ?'* 

He  opened  the  door,  and  he  trembled, 
although  he  was  anything  but  a  coward. 
The  room  into  which  he  entered,  was  about 
half  as  large  as  the  drawing-room  above.  A 
lamp  standing  in  the  center  of  the  carpet, 
shed  a  soft  luxurious  luster  over  the  walls, 
which,  white  as  snow,  WQre  adorned  with  ono 
mirror,  and  three  or  four  pictures,  set  in 
frames  of  black  and  gold.  At  a  glance,  in 
one  of  these  frames,  Randolph  recognized  the 
portrait  of  his  father.  The  windows,  open- 
ing on  the  street,  were  vailed  with  damask 
curtains.  A  piano  stood  in  one  corner,  a 
sofa  opposite,  and  elegant  chairs  of  dark 
wood,  were  disposed  around  the  room.  It 
was  at  once  a  neat,  singular,  and  somewhat 
luxurious  apartment. 

And  on  the  sofa,  was  seated  the  figure  of 
a  woman,  closely  vailed.  Her  dark  attire 
was  in  strong  contrast  with  the  scarlet 
cushions  on  which  she  rested,  and  the  snow- 
white  wall  behind  her. 

Randolph  stopped  suddenly ;  he  was 
stricken  dumb,  by  a  sensation  of  utter  bewil- 
derment. The  unknown  did  not  remove 
the  vail  from  her  face ;  she  did  not  even 
move. 

"  You  wish  to  see  me,  Madam  ?"  he  said, 
at  length. 

She  drew  the  vail  aside — he  beheld  her 
face, — and  the  next  moment  she  had  bound- 
ed from  the  sofa  and  was  resting  in  his 
arms. 

"  Eleanor  !"  he  cried,  as  the  vail  removed, 
he  beheld  her  face. 

"  Randolph  !"  she  exclaimed,  as  he  pressed 
her  to  his  breast. 

CHAPTER  VIIL 

ELEANOR  LYNN. 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  seated  side 
by  side  on  the  sofa,  and  while  she  spoke,  in 
a  low  musical  voice,  Randolph  devoured  her 
with  his  eyes. 

"  We  arrived  from  Europe,  only  the  day 
before  yesterday.  Father  determined  to 
visit  New  York,  on  our  way  to  Havana, 


FROM  NIGPITFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


83 


whero  we  intend  to  spend  the  winter.  And 
to-day,  by  a  strange  chance  at  our  hotel,  he 
encountered  your  Agent — the  superintendent 
of  your  southern  plantation, — an  eccentric 
person,  who  wears  an  old-fashioned  surtout, 
with  I  know  not  how  many  capes.  From 
this  gentleman,  father  learned  that  you  had 
just  arrived  from  the  south,  and  at  once  de- 
termined to  give  you  a  surprise.  We  came 
together,  but  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  wanted 
to  see  you  alone,  and,  therefore,  lingered 
behind,  while  father  went  up  stairs  to  pre- 
pare you  for  my  presence." 

She  smiled,  and  Randolph,  like  a  man  in 
a  delicious  dream,  feared  to  move  or  speak, 
lest  the  vision  which  he  beheld  might  vanish 
into  the  air. 

Words  are  but  poor  things,  with  which  to 
paint  a  beautiful  woman. 

There  was  youth  and  health  in  every  line 
of  her  face  :  her  form,  incased  in  a  dark 
dress,  which  enveloped  her  bust  and  fitted 
around  her  neck,  was  moulded  in  the  warm 
loveliness  of  womanhood,  at  once  mature 
and  virgin.  Her  bonnet  thrown  aside,  her 
face  was  disclosed  in  full  light.  A  brow,  de- 
noting by  its  outline,  a  bold,  yet  refined 
intellect ;  an  eye,  large,  lustrous,  and  looking 
black  by  night ;  a  lip  that  had  as  much  of 
pride  as  of  love  in  its  expression — such  were 
the  prominent  characteristics  of  her  face. 

Why  did  you  leave  us  so  abruptly  at 
Florence  ?"  she  exclaimed, — "Ah,  I  know 
the  secret — " 

"You  know  the  secret?"  echoed  Randolph, 
hif5  heart  mounting  to  his  throat. 

"  One  of  your  friends  in  Florence — a  young 
artist  named  Waters,  betrayed  you,"  she 
said,  and  laid  her  gloved  hand  on  his  arm,  a 
sunny  smile  playing  over  her  noble  counte- 
nance. "At  least  after  your  departure  he 
told  your  secrets  to  father." 

Randolph  started  from  the  sofa,  as  though 
a  chasm  had  opened  at  his  feet. 

"  He  betrayed  me — he  !  And  yet  you  do 
not  scorn  me  ?" 

"  Scorn  you  ?  Grave  matter  to  create 
Bcorn  !  You  have  a  quarrel  with  your  father, 
and  leave  home  on  ,a  run- a- way  tour  for 
Europe.  There,  in  Europe, — we  will  say 
at  Florence  —  you  make  friends,  and  run 
away  from  them,  because  you  are  afraid  they 
will  think  less  of  you,  when  they  are  aware 


that  your  father  may  disinherit  you.  Fie  ! 
Randolph,  twas  a  sorry  thing,  for  you  to 
think  so  meanly  of  your  friends  I" 

These  words  filled  Randolph  with  over- 
whelming agony. 

1  When  she  first  spoke,  he  was  assured  that 
the  secret  of  his  life,  was  known  to  her.  He 
was  aghast  at  the  thought,  but  at  the  same 

'  time,  overjoyed  to  know,  that  the  taint  of 
his  blood,  was  not  regarded  by  Eleanor  as  a 
crime. 

But  her  concluding  words  revealed  the 
truth.  She  was  not  aware  of  the  fact.  She 
was  utterly  mistaken,  as  to  his  motive,  for 
:  his  abrupt  departure  from  Florence.  Instead 
of  the  real  cause,  she  assigned  one  whicli 
was  comparatively  frivolous. 

"  Shall  I  tell  her  all  ?"  the  thought  cross- 
ed his  mind,  as  he  gazed  upon  her,  and  he 
shuddered  at  the  idea. 

"  And  so  you  thought  that  our  opinion  of 
you,  was  measured  by  your  wealth,  or  by 
your  want  of  wealth  ?  For  shame  Randolph! 
You  are  now  the  sole  heir  of  your  father» 
but  were  it  otherwise,  Randolph,  our  friend- 
ship for  you  would  remain  unchanged." 

"  The  sole  heir  of  my  father's  estate  1" 
Randolph  muttered  to  himself, — "  I  dare  not, 
dare  not,  tell  her  the  real  truth." 

But  the  fascination  of  that  woman's  loveli- 
ness was  upon  him.  The  sound  of  her 
voice  vibrated  through  every  fiber  of  his 
being.  When  he  gazed  into  her  eyes,  he 
forgot  the  darkness  of  his  destiny,  the  taint 
of  his  blood,  the  gloom  of  his  heart,  and  the 
hopes  and  fears  of  his  future.  He  lived  in 
the  present  moment,  in  the  smile,  the  voice, 
the  glance  of  the  woman  who  sat  by  him. — 
her  presence  was  world,  home,  heaven  to 
him — all  else  was  blank  nothingness. 

"Don't  you  think  that  I'm  a  very  strange 
woman  ?"  she  said  with  a  smile,  and  a  look 
of  undefinable  fascination.  "  Remember,  from 
my  childhood,  Randolph,  I  have  been  de- 
prived of  the  care  and  counsel  of  a  mother. 
Without  country  and  without  home,  I  have 
been  hurried  with  my  father  from  place  to 
place,  and  seen  much  of  the  Avorld,  and  may 
be  learned  to  battle  with  it.  I  am  not  much 
of  a  'woman  of  society,'  Randolj^h.  The 
artificial  life  led  by  woman  in  that  conven- 
tional world,  called  the  '  fashionable,'  never 
had  much  charm  for  me.     My  books,  my 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


pencil,  the  society  of  a  friend,  the  excite- 
ment of  a  jour'iev,  the  freedom  to  speak  my 
thoughts  without  fear  of  the  world's  frown, 
—  these,  Randolph,  suit  me  much  better 
than  the  life  of  woman,  as  she  appears  in 
the  fashionable  world.  And  whenever  I 
transgress  the  'decorums'  and  'proprieties,' 
you  will  be  pleased  to  remember  that  I  am 
but  a  sort  of  a  wild  woman  —  a  very  barba- 
rian in  the  midst  of  a  civilized  world." 

Randolph  did  not  say  that  she  was  an  an- 
gel, but  he  thought  that  she  was  very  beau- 
tiful for  a  wild  woman. 

She  rose. 

"Come,  let  us  join  father,"  she  said, — "and 
I  am  dying  to  see  this  sister  of  yours,  friend 
Randolph."  t 

Taking  her  bonnet  in  one  hand,  she  left 
her  cloak  on  the  sofa,  and  led  the  way  to  the 
door.  At  a  glance  Randolph  surveyed  her 
tall  and  magnificent  figure.  As  leaving  him, 
silent  and  bewildered,  on  the  sofa,  she 
turned  her  face  over  her  shoulder,  and  look- 
ed back  upon  him,  Randolph  muttered  to 
himself  the  thought  of  his  soul,  in  one 
word,  "  negro  ! "  So  much  beauty,  purity 
and  truth  before  him,  embodied  in  a  wo- 
man's form,  and  between  that  woman  and 
himself  an  eternal  barrier  !  The  blood  of  an 
accursed  race  in  his  veins,  the  mark  of  bond- 
age stamped  ujDon  the  inmost  fiber  of  his 
existence  —  it  was  a  bitter  thought.  "  You 
are  absent,  Randolph,"  she  said,  and  came 
back  to  him,  "  shall  I  guess  your  thoughts  ?" 
She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
bent  down  until  he  felt  her  breath  upon  his 
forehead. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  the  niglit  in  the  A_p- 
ennines  f  "  she  whispered.  Randolph  uttered 
an  incoherent  cry  of  rapture,  and  reached 
forth  his  arms,  and  drew  her  to  his  breast. — 
Their  lips  met  —  "You  have  not  forgotten 
it  ?"  he  whispered. 

She  drew  back  her  head  as  she  ^vas  girdled 
by  his  arms,  in  order  to  gaze  more  freely 
upon  his  face.  Blushing  from  the  throat  to 
the  forehead,  not  with  shame,  but  with  a 
passion  as  warm  and  as  pure  as  ever  lighted  a 
woman's  bosom,  she  answered  in  a  whisper  : 

"  Randolph,  I  love  you  ! " 

"  Love  me !  Ah,  my  God,  could  I  but 
hope,"  he  gasped. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  mouth. 


"  Hush,  I  am  my  father's  child.  We  hap- 
pen to  think  alike  on  subjects  of  importance. 
If  you  have  not  changed  since  the  night  in 
the  Apennines,  why  —  why,  then  Randolph, 
you  will  find  that  I  am  the  same.  As  for 
my  father,  he  always  loved  you." 

When  a  woman  like  Eleanor  Lynn  gives 
herself  away,  thus  freely  and  without  re- 
serve, you  may  be  sure  that  the  passion 
which  she  cherishes  is  not  of  an  hour,  a  day, 
or  a  year,  but  of  a  lifetime. 

Randolph  could  not  reply  in  coherent  words. 
There  was  a  wild  ejaculation,  a  frenzied 
embrace,  a  kiss  which  joined  together  these 
souls,  burning  with  the  fire  of  a  first  and 
stainless  love,  but  there  was  no  reply  in  words. 

And  all  the  while,  behind  the  form  of 
Eleanor,  Randolph  saw  a  phantom  shape, 
which  stood  between  him  and  his  dearest 
hope.  A  hideous  phantom,  which  said, 
"  Thou  art  young,  and  thy  face  is  pale  as  the 
palest  of  the  race  who  are  born  to  rule,  but 
the  blood  of  the  negro  is  in  thy  veins." 

At  length  Randolph  rose,  and  taking  her 
by  the  hand,  led  her  from  the  room. 

"  You  will  see  my  sister,  and  love  her,*» 
said  Randolph,  as  he  crossed  the  threshold. 
A  hand  was  laid  gently  on  his  arm,  and 
turning  he  beheld  Mr.  Hicks,  who  slipped  a 
letter  in  his  hand,  whispering,  — 

"  Pardon  me,  sir.  This  was  left  half  an 
hour  ago." 

Randolph  had  no  time  to  read  a  letter  at 
that  moment,  so  placing  it  in  his  coat  pock- 
et, he  led  Eleanor  up-stairs.  They  entered 
the  draAving-room,  and  were  received  by  her 
father  with  a  laugh,  and  the  exclamation, — 

"  So,  my  boy,  you  have  found  this  wild 
girl  of  mine  a  second  time !  Confess  that 
we  have  given  you  one  of  the  oddest  sur- 
prises you  ever  encountered  ! " 

Presently  Esther  and  Eleanor  stood  face  to 
face,  and  took  each  other  by  the  hand. — 
Both  noble-looking  women,  of  contrasted 
types  of  loveliness,  they  stood  before  the 
father  and  Randolph,  who  gazed  upon  them 
with  a  look  of  silent  admiration. 

"  So,  you  are  Esther  ! "  whispered  th« 
daughter  of  Bernard  Lynn. 

"  And  you  are  Eleanor!"  returned  the  sis- 
ter of  Randolph. 

"  We  shall  love  each  other  very  much," 
said  Eleanor,  —  "  Come,  let  us  talk  a  little.*' 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


85 


They  went  hand  in  hand  to  a  recess  near 
the  window,  and  sat  down  together,  leaving 
Randolph  and  Mr.  Lynn  alone,  near  the 
center  of  the  drawing-room. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  boy,  that  I  have  a  no- 
tion to  make  your  house  our  home,  while  we 
remain  in  New  York  ?  I  hate  the  noise  of 
a  hotel,  and  so  using  a  traveler's  privilege, 
of  bluntness,  I'll  invite  myself  and  Eleanor 
to  be  your  guests.  I  have  letters  to  the  '  first 
people '  of  the  city,  but  these  *  first  people,' 
as  they  are  called,  are  pretty  much  the  same 
everywhere  — cut  out  of  the  same  piece  of 
cloth,  all  over  the  W' orld — they  tire  one  dread- 
fully. If  you  have  no  objection,  my  friend, 
we'll  stay  with  you  for  a  few  days  at  least. 

Of  course,  Randolph  replied  to  Mr.  Lynn 
in  the  warmest  and  most  courteous  manner, 
concluding  with  the  words,  "  Esther  and 
myself  will  be  too  happy  to  have  you  for  our 
guests.  Make  our  house  your  home  while 
you  remain  in  New  York,  and  —  "  he  was 
about  to  add  "  forever  1 " 

Mr.  Lynn  took  him  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"  And  in  a  few  days,  he  must  learn  that  I 
am  not  the  legitimate  son  of  my  father,  but 
his  slave,''^  the  thought  crossed  him  as  he 
shook  the  hand  of  Eleanor's  father.  "  This 
Aladdin's  palace  will  crumble  into  ashes,  and 
this  gentleman  who  now  respects  me,  will 
turn  away  in  derision  from  Randolph,  the 
slave." 

It  was  a  homble  thought. 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Hicks  entered,  and 
announced  that  dinner  was  ready.  They  left 
the  room,  Randolph  with  Eleanor  on  his 
arm,  and  Mr.  Lynn  with  Esther,  and  bent 
their  steps  toward  the  dining-room.  On  the 
threshold  Mr.  Hicks  slipped  a  letter  in  the 
hand  of  Esther,  "  It  was  left  for  you.  Miss, 
half  an  hour  ago,"  he  said,  and  made  one 
of  his  mechanical  bows.  Esther  took  the 
letter  and  placed  it  in  her  bosom,  and 
Mr.  Hicks  threw  open  the  door  of  the  dining- 
room. 

Randolph  could  scarce  repress  an  ejacula- 
tion of  wonder,  as  (for  the  first  time)  he  be- 
held this  apartment. 

It  was  a  spacious  room,  oval  in  shape,  and 
with  a  lofty  ceiling,  which  was  slightly 
arched.  The  walls  were  covered  with  pale 
lilac  hangings,  and  fine  statues  of  white 
marble  stood  at  equal  distances  around  the 


place.  In  the  center  stood  the  table,  loaded 
with  viands,  and  adorned  with  an  alabaster 
vase,  filled  with  freshly-gathered  flowers. — 
Wax  candles  shed  a  mild  light  over  the 
scene,  and  the  air  was  imbued  at  once  with 
a  pleasant  warmth  and  with  the  breath  of 
flowers.  The  service  of  plate  which  loaded 
the  table  was  of  massive  gold.  Everything 
breathed  luxury  and  wealth, 

"  You  planters  know  how  to  live  ! "  whis- 
pered Bernard  Lynn  :  "  By  George,  friend 
Randolph,  you  are  something  of  a  repub- 
lican, but  it  is  after  the  Roman  school ! " 

In  accordance  with  Randolph's  request, 
Mr.  Lynn  took  the  head  of  the  table,  wnth 
Esther  and  Eleanor  on  either  hand.  Ran- 
dolph took  his  seat  opposite  the  father  of 
Eleanor,  and  gazed  around  with  a  look  of 
vague  astonishment.  A  servant  clad  in  gray 
livery,  fringed  with  black  velvet,  stood  be- 
hind each  chair,  and  Mr.  Hicks,  the  imper- 
turbable, retired  somewhat  in  the  background, 
presided  in  silence  over  the  progress  of  the 
banquet. 

"  We  are  not  exactly  dressed  for  dinner," 
laughed  Mr.  Lynn, — "  but  you  will  excuse 
our  breach  of  that  most  solemn  code,  pro- 
founder  than  Blackstone  or  Vattel,  and  called 
Etiquette:' 

Randolph  gazed  first  at  his  dark  hair, 
which  betrayed  some  of  the  traces  of  hazel, 
and  at  the  costume  of  Esther,  which  although 
it  displayed  her  form  to  the  best  advantage, 
was  not  precisely  suited  for  the  dinner-table. 

"Ah,  we  southrons  care  little  for  etiquette," 
he  replied, — "  only  to-day  arrived  from  the 
south,  Esther  and  I  have  had  little  time  to 
attend  to  the  niceties  of  costume.  By-the- 
bye,  friend  Lynn,  yourself  and  daughter  are 
in  the  same  predicament."  And  then  he 
muttered  to  himself,  "  Still  the  dress  is  better 
than  the  costume  of  a  negro  slave." 

The  dinner  passed  pleasantly,  with  but 
little  conversation,  and  that  of  a  light  and 
chatty  character.  The  servants,  stationed  be- 
hind each  chair,  obeyed  the  wishes  of  the 
guests  before  they  Avere  framed  in  words ; 
and  Mr.  Hicks  in  the  background,  managed 
their  movements  by  signs,  somewhat  after 
the  fashion  of  an  orchestra  leader.  It  was 
near  eight  o'clock  when  Esther  and  Eleanoi 
retired,  leaving  Randolph  and  Mr.  Lyna 
alone  at  the  table. 


86 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


"  Dismiss  these  folks,"  Scaid  Bernard  Lynn, 
pomting  toward  Mr.  llicks  and  the  other 
servants,  "  and  let  us  have  a  chat  together." 

At  a  sign  from  Randolph,  Mr.  Hicks  and 
the  servants  left  the  room. 

"Draw  your  chair  near  me, — there, — let 
us  look  into  each  other's  faces.  By  George  ! 
friend  Randolph,  your  wine  cellar  must  be 
worthy  of  a  prince  or  a  bishop  1  I  have  just 
sipped  3^our  Tokay,  and  tasted  your  Cham- 
pagne,— both  are  superb.  But  as  I  am  a 
traveler,  I  drink  brandy.  So  pass  the  bottle." 

As  Mr.  Lynn,  seated  at  his  ease,  filled  a 
capacious  goblet  with  brandy  from  a  bottle 
labeled  "1796,"  Randolph  surveyed  atten- 
tively his  face  and  form. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

BERNARD  LYNN. 

Bernard  Lynn  was  a  tall  and  muscular 
man,  somewhat  inclined  to  corpulence.  His 
dark  complexion  was  contrasted  with  the 
masses  of  snow-white  hair,  which  surrounded 
his  forehead,  and  the  eyebrows,  also  white, 
which  gave  additional  luster  to  his  dark 
eyes.  His  features  were  regular,  and  there 
were  deep  furrows  upon  his  forehead  and 
around  his  mouth.  Despite  the  good-hu- 
mored smile  which  played  about  his  lips, 
and  the  cheerful  light  which  flowed  from  his 
eyes,  there  was  at  times,  a  haggard  look 
upon  his  face.  One  moment  all  cheerfulness 
and  animation,  the  next  instant  his  face 
would  wear  a  faded  look  ;  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  would  fall ;  and  his  eye  become 
vacant  and  lusterless. 

He  emptied  the  goblet  of  brandy  without 
once  taking  it  from  his  lips,  and  the  effect 
was  directly  seen  in  his  glowing  countenance 
and  sparkling  eyes. 

"  Ah !  that  is  good  brandy,"  he  cried, 
smacking  his  lips,  and  sinking  back  in  his 
chair.  "  You  think  I  am  a  deep  drinker  ?" 
he  remarked,  after  a  moment's  pause. — "  Do 
not  wonder  at  it.  There  are  times  in  a  man's 
life  wdien  he  is  forced  to  choose  between  the 
brandy  bottle  and  the  knife  of  the  suicide." 

At  the  word,  his  head  sunk  and  his  coun- 
tenance became  clouded  and  sullen. 

Before  Randolph  could  reply,  he  raised 
his  head  and  exclaimed  gayly  : 

"  Do  you  know,  my  boy,  that  I  have  been 


a  great  traveler?  Three  times  I  have 
encircled  the  globe.  I  have  seen  most  of 
what  is  to  be  seen  under  the  canopy  of 
heaven.  I  have  been  near  freezing  to  death 
in  Greenland,  and  have  been  burned  almost 
to  a  cinder  by  the  broiling  sun  of  India. 
To-day,  in  the  saloons  of  Paris  ;  a  month 
after  in  the  midst  of  an  Arabian  desert ;  and 
the  third  month,  a  wanderer  among  the  ruins 
of  ancient  Mexico  and  Yucatan.  I  have 
tried  all  climates,  lived  with  all  sorts  of 
people,  and  seen  sights  that  would  make  the 
Arabian  Nights  seem  but  poor  and  tame  by 
contrast.    And  now,  my  boy,  I'm  tired." 

And  the  wan,  haggard  look  came  over  his 
face,  as  he  uttered  the  word  ^' tired." 

"  Your  daughter  has  not  accompanied  you 
in  these  pilgrimages  ?" 

"No.  From  childhood  she  was  left  under 
careful  guardianship,  in  the  bosom  of  an 
English  family,  who  lived  in  Florence, 
Poor  child !  I  have  often  wondered  what 
she  has  thought  of  me  !  To-day  I  have 
been  with  her  in  Florence,  and  within  two 
months  she  has  received  a  letter  from  me, 
from  the  ojDposite  side  of  the  globe.  But  as 
I  said  before,  I  am  tired.  Were  it  not  for 
one  thing  I  would  like  to  settle  down  in 
your  country.  A  fine  country, — a  glorious 
country, — only  one  fault,  and  that  very 
likely  Avill  eat  you  all  up." 

"Before  I  ask  the  nature  of  the  fault, 
pardon  me  for  an  impertinent  question.  Of 
what  country  are  you  ?  You  speak  of  the  { 
English  as  a  foreign  people ;  of  the  Ameri- 
cans in  the  same  manner ;  yet  you  speak  the 
language  without  the  slightest  apcent." 

The  countenance  of  Mr,  Lynn  became 
clouded  and  sullen, 

"I  am  of  no  country,"  he  said  harshly. 
"  I  ceased  to  have  a  country,  about  the  time 
Eleanor  w^as  born.  But  another  time,"  his 
tone  became  milder,  "I  may  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

"And  the  fault  of  our  country?"  said 
Randolph,  anxious  to  divert  the  thoughts  of 
his  friend  from  some  painful  memory,  which 
evidently  absorbed  his  mind,  "  what  is  it  ?'* 

Mr.  Lynn  once  more  filled  and  slowlr 
drained  his  goblet. 

"  You  are  the  last  person  to  whom  I  may 
speak  of  this  fault, — " 

"  How  so  ?" 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


87 


"You  are  a  planter.  You  have  been 
reared  under  peculiar  influences.  Your 
mind  from  childhood  has  been  impercepti- 
bly moulded  into  a  certain  form,  and  that 
form  it  is  impossible  to  change.  You  cannot 
see,  as  I  can ;  for  I  atti  a  spectator,  and  you 
are  in  the  center  of  the  conflagration,  which 
I  observe  from  a  distance.  No,  no,  Ran- 
dolph, I  can't  speak  of  it  to  you.  But  you 
planters  will  be  wakened  some  day — you 
will.  God  help  you  in  your  awakening — 
hem !" 

Randolph's  face  became  pale  as  death. 

"  You  speak,  my  friend,  of  the  question 
of  negro  slavery.  You  surely  don't  con- 
sider it  an  evil.  You — ^you — hate  the  very 
mention  of  the  race." 

Shading  his  eyes  with  his  uplifted  hand, 
Bernard  Lynn  said,  with  slow  and  measured 
distinctness : 

"Do  I  hate  the  race  ?  Yes,  if  you  could 
read  my  heart,  you  would  find  hatred  to  the 
African  race  written  on  its  every  fiber.  The 
very  name  of  negro  fills  me  with  loathing." 
He  uttered  an  oath,  and  continued  in  a 
lower  tone  :  "  By  what  horrible  fatality  was 
that  accursed  race  ever  planted  upon  the  soil 
of  the  New  World  1" 

Randolph  felt  his  blood  boil  in  his  veins ; 
his  face  was  flushed  ;  he  breathed  in  gasps. 

"And  then  it  is  not  sympathy  for  the 
negro,  that  makes  you  look  with  aversion 
upon  the  institution  of  American  slavery  ?" 

"  Sympathy  for  a  libel  upon  the  race  —  a 
hybrid  composed  of  the  monkey  and  the 
man  ?  The  idea  is  laughable.  Were  the 
negro  in  Africa — his  own  country — I  might 
tolerate  him.  But  his  presence  in  any  shape, 
as  a  dweller  among  people  of  the  white 
race,  is  a  curse  to  that  race,  more  horrible 
than  the  plagues  of  Egypt  or  the  fires  of 
Gomorrah." 

"  It  is,  then,  the  irifluence  of  negro  slavery 
upm  the  ivhite  race,  which  concerns  you  ?" 
faltered  Randolph. 

"It  is  the  influence  of  negro  slavery  upon 
the  white  race  which  concerns  me,"  echoed 
Lynn,  with  bitter  emphasis  :  "  But  you  are 
a  planter.  I  cannot  talk  to  you.  To 
mention  the  subject  to  one  of  you,  is  to  set 
you  in  a  blaze.  By  George  !  how  the  devils 
must  laugh  when  they  see  us  poor  mortals, 
BO  eager  in  the  pursuit  of  our  own  ruin, — so 
6 


merry  as  we  play  with  hot  coals  in  the  midst 
of  a  powder  magazine  !" 

"You  may  speak  to  me  upon  this  sub- 
ject," said  Randolph,  drawing  a  long  breath, 
"  and  speak  freely." 

"  It  wont  do.  You  are  all  blind.  There, 
for  instance,  is  the  greatest  man  among  you ; 
his  picture  hangs  at  your  back — " 

Randolph  turned  and  beheld,  for  the  first 
time,  a  portrait  which  hung  against  the  wall 
behind.  It  was  a  sad,  stern  face,  with  snow- 
white  hair,  and  a  look  of  intellect,  moulded 
by  an  iron  Destiny.  It  was  the  likeness  of 
John  C.  Calhoun,  —  Calhoun,  the  John 
Calvin  of  Political  Economy. 

"  I  knew  him  when  he  was  a  young  man," 
continued  Lynn,  "  I  have  met  and  conversed 
with  him.  Mind,  I  do  not  say  that  we  were 
intimate  friends!  A  braver  man,  a  truer 
heart,  a  finer  intellect,  never  lived  beneath 
the  sun.  Then  he  felt  the  evils  of  this  hor- 
rible system,  and  felt  that  the  only  remedy, 
was  the  removal  of  the  entire  race  to  Africa. 
Yes,  he  felt  that  the  black  man  could  only 
exist  beside  the  white,  to  the  utter  degrada- 
tion of  the  latter.  Now,  ha !  ha !  he  has 
grown  into  the  belief,  that  Slavery, — in  other 
words,  the  presence  of  the  black  race  in  the 
midst  of  the  white, — is  a  blessing.  To  that 
belief  he  surrenders  everything,  intellect, 
heart,  soul,  the  hope  of  power,  and  the  ap- 
probation of  posterity.  When  Calhoun  is 
blind,  how  can  you  planters  be  expected  to 
see  ?" 

Randolph  was  silent.  "  There  is  in  my 
veins,  the  blood  of  this  accused  race,"  he 
muttered  to  himself. 

"  In  order  to  look  up  some  of  the  results 
of  this  system,"  continued  Bernard  Lynn, 
"  let  us  look  at  some  of  the  characteristics  of 
the  American  people.  The  north  is  a  trader; 
it  traffics  ;  it  buys  ;  it  sells ;  it  meets  every 
question  with  the  words,  *  Will  it  pay  P 
(As  a  gallant  southron  once  said  to  me; 
"  When  the  north  choose  a  patron  saint,  a 
new  name  will  be  added  to  the  calendar, 
'  Saint  Picayune  ' ").  The  South  is  frank, 
generous,  hospitable ;  there  are  the  virtues 
of  ideal  chivalry  among  the  southern  people. 
And  yet,  the  north  prospers  in  every  sense, 
while  the  south, — what  is  the  f  uture  of  the 
South  ?  The  west,  noble,  generous,  and  free 
from  the  traits  which  mark  a  nation  of  mere 


88 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


traffickers,  is  Just  what  the  south  would  he, 
were  it  free  from  the  Black  Race.  Think 
of  that,  friend  Randolph  !  You  may  glean  a 
bit  of  solid  truth  from  the  disconnected  re- 
marks of  an  old  traveler." 

"  But  you  have  not  yet,  instanced  a  single 
evil  of  our  institution,"  interrupted  Ran- 
dolph. 

"  Are  you  from  the  south,  and  yet,  ask  me 
to  give  you  instances  of  the  evils  of  slavery  ? 
Pshaw  !  I  tell  you.  man,  the  evil  of  slavery 
consists  in  the  presence  of  the  black  race 
in  the  midst  of  the  whites.  That  is  the  sum 
of  the  matter.  You  cannot  elevate  that  race 
save  at  the  expense  of  the  whites — not  the 
expense  of  money,  mark  you, — but  at  the 
expense  of  the  physical  and  mental  features 
of  the  white  race.  Don't  I  speak  plain 
enough  ?  The  two  races  cannot  live  toge- 
ther and  not  mingle.  You  know  it  to  be 
impossible.  And  do  you  pretend  to  say,  that 
the  mixture  of  black  and  white,  can  produce 
anything  but  an  accursed  progeny,  destitute 
of  the  good  qualities  of  each  race,  and  by 
their  veiy  origin,  at  war  with  both  African 
and  Caucasian  ?  Nay,  you  need  not  hold 
your  head  in  your  hands.  It  is  blunt  truth, 
but  it  is  truth." 

The  bolt  had  struck  home.  Randolph 
had  buried  his  face  in  his  hands, — "I  am 
one  of  these  hybrids,"  he  muttered  in  agony; 
<'  at  war  at  the  same  time,  with  the  race  of 
my  father  and  my  mother." 

"  But,  how  would  you  remedy  this  evil  ?" 
he  asked,  without  raising  his  head. 

"Remove  the  whole  race  to  Africa,"  re- 
sponded Lynn. 

"  How  can  this  be  done  ?" 

"  By  one  effort  of  southern  will.  Instead 
of  attempting  to  defend  the  system,  let  the 
southern  people  resolve  at  once,  that  the 
presence  of  the  black  race,  is  the  greatest  curse 
that  can  befall  America.  This  resolution 
made,  the  means  will  soon  follow.  One- 
fourth  the  expenses  of  a  five  years'  war 
would  transport  the  negroes  to  Africa.  One- 
twentieth  part  of  the  sum,  which  will  be  ex- 
pended in  the  next  ten  years  (I  say  nothing 
of  the  past)  in  the  quarrel  of  north  and  south, 
about  this  matter,  would  do  the  work  and  do 
it  well.  And  then,  free  from  the  black  race, 
the  south  would  go  to  work  and  mount  to  her 
destiny.'* 


"  But,  what  will  become  of  the  race,  when 
they  are  transported  to  Africa  ?" 

"  If  they  are  really  of  the  human  family, 
they  will  show  it,  by  the  civilization  of 
Africa.  They  will  establish  a  Nationality 
for  the  Negro,  and  plant  the  arts  on  sea- 
shore and  desert.  Apart  from  the  white 
race,  they  can  rise  into  their  destiny." 

"  And  if  nothing  is  done  ?"  interrupted 
Randolph. 

•*  If  the  south  continues  to  defend,  and  the 
north  to  quarrel  about  slavery, — if  instead  of 
making  one  earnest  eff"ort  to  do  something 
with  the  evil,  they  break  down  national 
good-feeling,  and  waste  millions  of  money  in 
mutual  threats, — why,  in  that  case,  it  needs 
no  prophet  to  foretell  the  future  of  the  south. 
That  future  will  realize  one  of  two  condi- 
tions— " 

He  paused,  and  after  a  moment,  repeated 
with  singular  emphasis,  "  St  Domingo  ! — St, 
Domingo !" 

"  And  the  other  condition,"  said  Randolph. 

"  The  whole  race  will  be  stript  of  all  its 
noble  qualities,  and  swallowed  up  in  a  race, 
composed  of  black  and  white,  and  cursing 
the  very  earth  they  tread.  In  the  south,  the 
white  race  will  in  time  be  annihilated.  That 
garden  of  the  world,  composed,  I  know  not 
of  how  many  states, — extending  from  the 
middle  states  to  the  gulf,  and  from  the  At- 
lantic to  the  Mississippi, — will  repeat  on  a 
colossal  scale,  the  horrible  farce,  which  the 
world  has  seen,  in  the  case  of  St.  Domingo." 

Bernard  Lynn  again  filled  his  goblet,  and 
slowly  sipped  the  brandy,  while  the  fire 
faded  from  his  eyes,  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
fell, — his  face  became  faded  and  haggard 
again. 

Randolph,  seated  near  him,  his  elbow  on 
his  knee,  and  his  forehead  supported  by  his 
hand,  was  buried  in  thought.  His  face  was 
averted  from  the  light :  the  varied  emotions 
which  convulsed  it  in  every  lineament,  were 
concealed  from  the  observation  of  Bernard 
Lynn. 

Thus  they  remained  for  a  long  time,  each 
bm-ied  in  his  own  peculiar  thoughts. 

"Randolph,"  said  Bernard  Lynn, —  and 
there  was  something  so  changed  and  singular 
in  his  tone,  that  Randolph  started — "  draw 
near  to  me.    I  wish  to  speak  with  you." 

Randolph  looked  up,  and  was  astonished 


PROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


89 


by  the  change  which  had  passed  over  the 
face  of  the  traveler.  His  eyes  flashed  wild- 
ly, his  features  were  one  moment  fixed  and 
rigid  and  the  next,  tremulous  and  quivering 
with  strong  emotion ;  the  veins  were  swollen 
on  his  broad  forehead. 

"  Randolph,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  agitated 
voice,  "  I  am  a  Carolinian." 

"A  Carolinian  ?"  echoed  Randolph. 

"  The  name  of  Bernard  Lynn  is  not  my 
real  name.  It  is  an  assumed  name,  Randolph. 
Assumed,  do  you  hear  me  ?"  his  eyes  flash- 
ed more  wildly,  and  he  seized  Randolph's 
hand,  and  unconsciously  wrung  it  with  an 
almost  frenzied  clutch  —  "Assumed  some 
seventeen  years  ago,  when  I  forsook  my 
home,  my  native  soil,  and  became  a  miser- 
able wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Do 
you  know  why  I  assumed  that  name, — do 
you  know  ? — " 

He  paused  as  if  sufibcated  by  his  emotions. 
After  a  moment  he  resumed  in  a  lower, 
deeper  voice, — 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  name  of  ? 

"  It  is  the  name  of  one  of  the  first  and 
oldest  families  of  Carolina,"  responded  Ran- 
dolph. "  A  name  renowned  in  her  history, 
but  now  extinct,  I  believe." 

"  That  is  my  name,  my  real  name,  which 
I  have  forsaken  forever,  for  the  one  which  I 
now  bear,"  resumed  Bernard  Lynn.  "  I  am 
the  last  male  representative  of  the  family. 
Seventeen  years  ago  my  name  disappeared 
from  Carolina.  I  left  home  —  my  native 
land  —  all  the  associations  that  make  life 
dear,  and  became  a  miserable  exile.  And 
why  ?" 

He  uttered  an  oath,  which  came  sharp  and 
hissing  through  his  clenched  teeth. 

Profoundly  interested,  Randolph,  as  if 
fascinated,  gazed  silently  into  the  flashing 
eyes  of  Bernard  Lynn. 

"  I  was  young, — rich, — the  inheritor  of  an 
honored  name,"  continued  Bernard  Lynn,  in 
hurried  tones, — "and  I  was  married,  Ran- 
dolph, married  to  a  woman  of  whom  Eleanor 
is  the  living  picture, — a  woman  as  noble  in 
soul,  and  beautiful  in  form  as  ever  trod 
God's  earth.  One  year  after  our  marriage, 
when  Eleanor  Avas  a  babe, — nearer  to  me, 
Randolph, — I  left  my  plantation  in  the  eve- 
ning, and  went  on  a  short  visit  to  Charleston. 
I  came  home  the  next  day,  and  where  I  had 


left  my  wife  living  and  beautiful,  I  found 
only  a  mangled  and  dishonored  corpse." 

His  head  fell  upon  his  breast, — he  could 
not  proceed. 

"  This  is  too  horrible !"  ejaculated  Ran- 
dolph,— "  too  horrible  to  be  real." 

Bernard  raised  his  head,  and  clutching 
Randolph's  hands — 

"  The  sun  was  setting,  and  his  beams 
shone  warmly  through  the  western  windows 
as  I  entered  the  bedchamber.  Oh !  I  can 
see  it  yet, — I  can  see  it  now, — the  babe 
sleeping  on  the  bed,  while  the  mother  is 
stretched  upon  the  floor,  lifeless  and  welter- 
ing in  her  blood.  Murdered  and  dishonored — 
mm'dered  and  dishonored — " 

As  though  those  words,  "  murdered  and 
dishonored,"  had  choaked  his  utterance,  he 
paused,  and  uttered  a  groan,  and  once  more 
his  head  fell  on  his  breast. 

At  this  moment,  even  as  Randolph,  ab- 
sorbed by  the  revelation,  sits  silent  and  pale, 
gazing  upon  the  bended  head  of  the  old 
man,  —  at  this  moment  look  yonder,  and 
behold  the  form  of  a  woman,  who  with 
finger  on  her  lip,  stands  motionless  near  the 
threshold. 

Randolph  is  not  aware  of  her  presence— 
the  old  man  cannot  see  her,  for  there  is 
agony  like  death  in  his  heart,  and  his  head 
is  bowed  upon  his  breast;  but  there  she 
stands,  motionless  as  though  stricken  into 
stone,  by  the  broken  words  which  she  has 
heard. 

It  is  Eleanor  Lynn. 

On  the  very  threshold  she  was  arrested  by 
the  deep  tones  of  her  father's  voice, — she 
listened, — and  for  the  first  time  heard  the 
story  of  her  mother's  death. 

And  now,  stepping  backward,  her  eye 
riveted  on  her  father's  form,  she  seeks  to 
leave  the  room  unobserved, — she  reaches  the 
threshold,  when  her  father's  voice  is  heard 
once  more  : — 

"  Ask  me  not  for  details,  ask  me  not,"  he 
cried  in  broken  tones,  as  once  more  he  raised 
his  convulsed  countenance  to  the  light. 
"  The  author  of  this  outrage  was  not  a  man, 
but  a  negro, — a  demon  in  a  demon's  shape  ; 
and " — he  smiled,  but  there  was  no  merri- 
ment in  his  smile, — "and  now  you  know 
why  I  left  home,  native  land,  all  the  associ- 
ations which  make  life  dear,  seventeen  years 


90 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


ago.  Now  you  know  why  I  hate  the 
accursed  race. 

As  he  spoke,  Eleanor  Lynn  glided  from 
the  room. 

CHAPTER  X. 
"yes,  you  will  meet  him." 

As  midnight  drew  near,  Randolph  was 
alone  in  his  bedchamber, — a  spacious  cham- 
ber, magnificently  furnished,  and  illumined 
by  a  single  candle,  which  stood  upon  a  rose- 
wood table  near  the  lofty  bed.  Seated  in  a 
chair,  with  his  cloak  thrown  over  his 
shoulders,  and  an  opened  letter  in  his  hand, 
Randolph's  eyes  were  glassy  with  profound 
thought.  His  face  was  very  pale  ;  a  slight 
trembling  of  the  lip,  an  occasional  heaving 
of  the  chest,  alone  made  him  appear  less 
motionless  than  a  statue. 

The  letter  which  he  held  was  the  one 
which  Mr.  Hicks  had  given  him,  some  three 
hours  before,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  be 
occupied  with  its  contents. 

"It  looks  like  a  bridal  chamber,"  he 
muttered,  as  his  eye  roved  round  the  spacious 
apartment,  "  and  this  white  couch  like  a 
bridal  bed," — a  bitter  smile  crossed  his  face. 
"Think  of  it— the  bridal  bed  of  Eleanor 
Lynn  and — ^the  white  slave  !" 

And  he  relapsed  into  his  reverie ;  or 
rather,  into  a  train  of  thought,  which  had 
occupied  him  for  two  hours  at  least,  while 
he  sat  silent  and  motionless  in  his  cham- 
ber. 

Oh,  dark  and  bitter  thoughts — filling  every 
vein  with  fire,  and  swelling  every  avenue  of 
the  brain  with  the  hot  pulsations  of  mad- 
ness !  The  image  of  Eleanor,  the  story  told 
two  hours  ago  by  Bernard  Lynn,  and  the 
taint  that  corrupted  the  life-blood  in  his 
veins, — all  these  mingled  in  his  thoughts, 
and  almost  drove  him  mad. 

"And  from  this  labyrinth,  what  way  of 
escape  ?  Will  Eleanor  be  mine,  when  she 
learns  that  I  am  of  the  accursed  race  of  the 
wretch  who  first  dishonored  and  then  out- 
raged her  mother  ?    And  the  father, — ah  !" 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow,  as  if  to 
banish  these  thoughts,  and  then  perused  the 
letter  which  he  held  in  his  hand, — 

"  It  is  signed  by  my  *  unknown  friend  of 
the  half-way-house/  and  desires  me,  for 


certain  reasons,  to  be  at  a  particular  locality, 
in  the  Five  Points,  at  ten  minutes  past 
twelve.  It  is  now,"  —  he  took  his  gold 
watch  from  his  pocket, — "  half  past  eleven. 
I  must  be  moving,  A  singular  request,  and 
a  mysterious  letter ;  but  I  will  obey." 

On  the  table  lay  a  leather  belt,  in  which 
were  inserted  two  bowie-knives  and  a  revolv- 
ing pistol.  Randolph  wound  it  about  his 
waist,  and  then  drew  a  cap  over  his  brow, 
and  gathered  his  cloak  more  closely  to  his 
form. 

He  next  extinguished  the  candle,  and 
stole  softly  from  the  room.  As  he  descended 
the  stairway,  all  was  still  throughout  the 
mansion.  The  servants  had  retired,  and 
Eleanor,  Esther,  and  the  old  man,  no  doubt, 
were  sound  asleep.  Randolph  passed  along 
the  hall,  and  opening  the  front  door,  crossed 
its  threshold. 

"  Now  for  the  adventure,"  he  ejaculated, 
and  hurried  down  Broadway.  After  nearly 
half  an  hour's  walk,  he  turned  into  one  of 
those  streets  which  lead  from  the  light  and 
uproar  of  Broadway,  toward  the  region  of 
the  Tombs. 

Darkness  was  upon  the  narrow  street,  and 
his  footsteps  alone  broke  the  dead  stillness, 
as  he  hurried  along. 

As  he  reached  a  solitary  lamp,  which  gave 
light  to  a  portion  of  the  street,  his  ear 
caught  the  echo  of  footsteps  behind ;  and, 
impelled  by  an  impulse  which  he  could  not 
himself  comprehend,  Randolph  paused,  and 
concealed  his  form  in  the  shadow  of  a  deep 
doorway.  From  where  he  stood,  by  the 
light  of  the  lamp,  (which  was  not  five  paces 
distant,)  he  could  command  a  view  of  any 
wayfarer  who  might  chance  to  pass  along 
the  deserted  street. 

The  footsteps  drew  nearer,  and  presently 
two  persons  came  in  sight.  They  halted 
beneath  the  lamp.  Randolph  could  not  see 
their  faces,  but  he  remarked  that  one  was 
short  and  thick-set  in  form,  while  the  other 
was  tall  and  commanding.  The  tall  one 
wore  a  cloak,  and  the  other  an  overcoat. 

And  Randolph  heard  their  voices — 

"  Are  we  near  the  hound  ?  My  back 
hurts  like  the  devil,  and  I  don't  wish  to>  go 
any  farther  than  is  necessary." 

"  Only  a  block  or  two,  to  go,"  replied  .the 
other.     "Judas  Iscariot!   Just  think  that 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 

we're  sure  to  find  Tiim  there,  Royalton,  and 
your  back  wont  hurt  a  bit." 

"  Oh,  by  !  let  me  but  find  /ii'm,  and 

stand  face  to  face  with  him,  and  I'll  take 
care  of  the  rest." 

These  words,  accompanied  by  an  oath, 
and  uttered  with  the  emphasis  of  a  mortal 
hatred,  were  all  that  Randolph  heard. 

The  twain  proceeded  on  their  way. 

It  was  not  until  the  sound  of  their  foot- 
steps had  died  away,  that  Randolph  emerged 
from  his  hiding-place — 

"  Yes,  you  will  meet  him,  and  stand  face 
to  face  with  hiTifi^  and — the  rest  is  yet  to  be 
known." 

He  felt  for  his  knives  and  pistols, — they 
were  safe  in  the  belt  about  his  waist ;  and 
then,  conscious  that  the  crisis  of  his  fate 
was  near  at  hand,  he  silently  pursued  his  way. 

Return  for  a  moment  to  the  house  in 
Broadway. 

Esther  is  there,  alone  in  her  chamber, 
standing  before  a  mirror,  with  a  light  in  her 
hand.  The  mirror  reaches  from  the  ceiling 
to  the  floor;  and  never  did  mirror  image 
forth  before,  a  face  and  form  so  perfectly 
beautiful. 

She  has  changed  her  attire.  The  green 
habit  no  longer  incloses  her  form.  A  dress 
or  robe  of  spotless  white,  leaves  her  neck 
and  shoulders  bare,  rests  in  easy  folds  upon 
her  proud  bust,  and  is  girdled  gently  to  her 
waist  by  a  sash  of  bright  scarlet.  The 
sleeves  are  wide,  the  folds  loose  and  flowing, 
and  the  sleeves  and  the  hem  of  the  skirt  are 
bordered  by  a  line  of  crimson.  The  only 
ornament  which  she  wears  is  not  a  diamond, 
Vooch  or  bracelet,  not  even  a  ring  upon  her 
delicate  hand,  but  a  single  lily,  freshly  gath- 
ered, which  gleams  pure  and  white  from  the 
blackness  of  her  hair. 

And  what  need  she  of  ornament  ?  A 
very  beautiful  woman,  with  a  noble  form,  a 
voluptuous  bust;  a  face  pale  as  marble, 
ripening  into  vivid  bloom  on  the  lip  and 
cheek,  relieved  by  jet-black  hair,  and  illu- 
mined by  eyes  that,  flashing  from  their  deep 
fringes,  bum  with  wild,  with  maddening 
light.  A  very  beautiful  woman,  who,  as  she 
surveys  herself  in  the  mirror,  knows  that 
she  is  beautiful,  and  feels  her  pulse  swell, 
[  her  bosom  heave  slowly  into  light,  her  blood 
bound  with  the  fullness  of  life  in  eveiy  vein. 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT.  fi% 

One  hand  holds  the  light  above  her  dark 
hair — the  other  the  letter  which,  three  hours 
and  more  ago,  she  received  from  Mr.  Hicks. 

"  It  requested  me  to  attire  myself  in  the 
dress  which  I  would  find  in  my  chamber,  the 
costume  of  Lucretia  Borgia.  And  I  have 
obeyed.  And  then  to  enter  the  carriage, 
which  at  a  quarter  past  twelve,  will  await 
me  at  the  next  comer,  and  bear  me  to  the 
Temple.    I  will  obey." 

She  smiled  —  a  smile  that  disclosed  the 
ivory  of  her  teeth,  the  ripeness  of  her  lips — 
lit  up  her  eyes  with  new  light,  and  was  re- 
sponded to  by  the  swell  of  her  proud  bosom. 

Take  care  Esther  !  You  wear  the  dress 
of  Lucretia  Borgia,  and  you  are  even  more 
madly  beautiful  than  that  accursed  child  of 
the  Demon-Pope;  but  have  a  care.  You  are 
yet  spotless  and  pure.  But  the  blood  is 
warm  in  your  veins,  and  perchance  there  is 
ambition  as  well  as  passion  in  the  fire  which 
bums  in  your  eyes.  Have  a  care  !  The  fu- 
ture is  yet  to  come,  Esther,  and  who  can  tell 
what  it  will  bring  forth  for  you  ? 

"  I  will  meet  Godlike  there,"  she  said, 
and  an  inexplicable  smile  animated  her 
face. 

She  placed  a  small  poniard  in  the  folds 
of  her  sash,  and  threw  a  heavy  cloak,  to 
which  was  attached  a  hood,  over  her  form. 
She  drew  the  hood  over  her  face,  and  stood 
ready  to  depart. 

The  light  was  extinguished.  She  glided 
from  the  room,  and  do^vn  the  stairs,  and 
passed  unobserved  from  the  silent  house.  At 
the  comer  of  the  next  street  the  carriage 
waited  with  the  driver  on  the  box. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  The  Temple,"  answered  the  driver,  and 
descended  from  the  box,  and  opened  the 
carriage  door. 

Esther  entered,  the  door  was  closed,  the 
carriage  whirled  away. 

"What  will  be  the  result  of  the  adven- 
tures of  this  night  ?  "  she  thought,  and  her 
bosom  heaved  with  mad  agitation. 

And  as  she  was  thus  home  to  the  Temple, 
there  was  a  woman  watching  by  the  bedside 
of  an  old  man,  in  one  of  the  chambers  of 
the  Broadway  mansion,  —  Eleanor  watching 
while  her  father  slept. 

Her  night-dress  hung  in  loose  folds  about 
her  noble  form,  as  she  arose  and  held  tlie  dim 


92 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


light  nearer  to  his  gray  hairs.  There  was 
agony  stamped  upon  his  face,  even  as  he 
slept  —  an  agony  which  was  reflected  in  the 
pallid  face  and  tremulous  lips  of  his  daugh- 
ter. 

"  He  sleeps ! "  she  exclaimed  in  a  low 
voice  :  "  Little  does  he  fancy  that  I  know 
the  fearful  history  which  this  night  fell  from 
his  lips.  And  this  night,  hefore  he  retired  to 
rest,  he  clasped  me  to  his  hosom,  and  said — " 
she  blushed  in  neck  and  cheek  and  brow, — 
"  that  it  was  the  dearest  wish  of  his  heart, 
that  I  should  be  united  to  Randolph." 

She  kissed  him  gently  on  the  brow,  and 
crept  noiselessly  to  her  own  room,  and  soon 
was  asleep,  the  image  of  Randolph  prom- 
inent in  her  dreams. 

Poor  Eleanor ! 

Leaving  Randolph,  his  sister,  and  those 
connected  with  their  fate,  our  history  now 
turns  to  other  characters. 

Let  us  enter  the  house  of  the  merchant 
prince. 

CHAPTER  XL 

IN  THE  HOUSE  OF   THE   MERCHANT  PRINCE. 

It  was  near  eleven  o'clock,  on  the  night 
of  December  23d,  1844,  when  Evelyn  Som- 
ers,  Sen.,  sitting  in  his  library  by  the  light 
of  the  shaded  candle,  was  startled  by  the 
ringing  of  the  bell. 

"  The  front  door-bell ! "  he  ejaculated, 
looking  up  from  his  labors,  until  the  candle 
shone  full  upon  his  thin  features  and  low 
forehead.  "  Can  it  be  Evelyn  ?  Oh  !  I  for- 
got. He  returned  only  this  evening.  One 
of  the  servants,  I  suppose  —  been  out  late — 
must  look  to  this  in  the  morning." 

He  resumed  his  pen,  and  again,  surrounded 
by  title-deeds  and  mortgages,  bent  down  to 
his  labors. 

So  deeply  was  he  absorbed  that  he  did 
not  hear  the  opening  of  the  front  door,  fol- 
lowed by  a  footstep  in  the  hall.  Nor  did 
he  hear  the  stealthy  opening  of  the  door  of 
the  library ;  much  less  did  he  see  the  burly 
figure  which  advanced  on  tiptoe  to  his  table. 

"  Be  calm  1 "  said  a  gruff  voice,  and  a 
hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder. 

"Hey!  What?  Who,  —  who  —  are — 
you  ?  "  The  merchant  prince  started  in  his 
chair,  and  beheld  a  burly  form  enveloped  in 


a  bear-skin  overcoat  and  full-moon  face, 
spotted  with  carbuncles. 

"  Be  calm  ! "  said  the  owner  of  the  face,  in 
a  hoarse  voice.  "  There 's  no  occasion  to 
alarm  yourself.    These  things  will  happen." 

The  merchant  prince  was  thoroughly 
amazed. 

Opening  his  small  eyes,  half  concealed  by 
heavy  lids,  to  their  fullest  extent,  he  cried : 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Who  are  you  ? — 
I  don't  know  you  ?    What  —  what  —  " 

"  I'm  Blossom,  I  am,"  returned  the  full- 
moon  face,  Lay  low!  Keep  dark!  I'm 
Blossom,  one  of  the  secret  police.  Lay  low  I" 

"  My  God  !  Is  Evelyn  in  another  scrape?'* 
ejaculated  the  merchant  prince  ;  "  I  will  pay 
for  no  more  of  his  misdeeds.  There's  no  use 
of  talking  about  it.  I'll  not  go  his  bail,  if 
he  rots  in  the  Tombs.  I'll  — "  Mr. 
Somers  doggedly  folded  his  arms,  and  sat 
bolt  upright  in  his  chair. 

With  his  contracted  features,  spare  form 
and  formal  white  cravat,  he  looked  the  very 
picture  of  an  unrelenting  father. 

**  Come,  boss,  there's  no  use  of  that.'* 

"  Hoss !  Do  you  apply  such  words  to 
me,"  indignantly  echoed  the  merchant 
prince. 

"Be  calm,  soothingly  remarked  Blossom. 
Lay  low.  Keep  dark.  Jist  answer  me  one 
question  :  Has  your  son  Evelyn  a  soot  o' 
rooms  in  the  upper  part  o'  this  house  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  ask  such  a  question  for  ? » 
and  Mr.  Somers  opened  his  eyes  again.  "  He 
has  all  the  rooms  on  the  third  floor,  in  the 
body  of  the  mansion — there  are  four  in  all." 

"  Very  good.  Now,  is  Evelyn  at  home  ?" 
asked  Blossom. 

"  Don't  come  so  near.  The  smell  of  bran- 
dy is  ofi'ensive  to  me.    Faugh  ! " 

"  You'll  smell  brimstone,  if  you  don't 
take  keer!"  exclaimed  the  indignant  Blos- 
som. "  To  think  o'  sich  ingratitude  from  an 
old  cock  like  you,  when  I've  come  to  keep 
that  throat  o'  yourn  from  bein'  cut  by  rob- 
bers." 

"  Robbers  ! "  and  this  time  Mr.  Somers 
fairly  started  from  his  seat. 

"  When  I've  come  to  purtect  yoMx  jugularf 
—  yes,  you  need  n't  wink,  —  your  jugular  ! 
Oh,  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  a  Roman 
consul  once  remarked  that  republics  is  un- 
grateful." 


1 


FKOM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


93 


"  Kobbers  ?  Bobbers  !  What  d'ye  mean  ? 
Speak  —  speak  —  " 

Blossom  laid  his  hand  upon  the  mer- 
chant's shoulder. 

"If  you'll  promise  to  keep  a  secret,  and 
not  make  a  fuss,  I'll  tell  you  all.  If  you  go 
for  raisin'  a  hellabaloo,  I'll  walk  out  and 
leave  your  jugular  to  take  care  of  itself." 

"I  promise,  I  promise,"  ejaculated  the 
merchant. 

"  Then,  while  you  are  sittin'  in  that  ere 
identical  chair,  there's  two  crackmen  —  bur- 
glars, you  know,  —  hid  up-stairs  in  your 
son's  room.  They're  a-waitin'  until  you 
put  out  the  lights,  and  go  to  sleep,  and  then, 
—  your  cash-box  and  jugular's  the  word  ?  — 
Why,  I  wouldn't  insure  your  throat  for  all 
your  fortin." 

The  merchant  prince  was  seized  with  a 
fit  of  trembling. 


"  Bobbers  !  in  my  house  ! 


Astounding, 


a-s-t-o-u-n-d-i-n-g !     How    did   they  get 


in 


9» 


"  By  your  son's  night-key,  and  the  front 
door.  You  see  I  was  arter  these  crackmen 
to-night,  and  found  'em  in  a  garret  of  the 
Yaller  Mug.  You  never  patronize  the 
Yaller  Mug,  do  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Somers  nodded  "No,"  with  a  spas- 
modic shake  of  the  head. 

"  Jist  afore  I  pitched  into  'em,  I  listened 
outside  of  the  garret  door,  and  overheard 
their  plot  to  conceal  themselves  in  Evelyn's 
room,  until  you'd  all  gone  to  bed,  and  then 
commence  operations  on  your  cash-box  and 
jugular.  One  o'  'em's  a  convict  o'  eleven 
years'  standin'.  He's  been  regularly  initiated 
into  all  the  honors  of  Auburn  and  Cherry 
Hill." 

"  And  you  arrested  them  ?  " 

"  Do  you  see  this  coverlet  about  my  head  ? 
That's  what  I  got  for  attemptin'  it.  They 
escaped  from  the  garret,  by  getting  upon  the 
roof,  and  jumpin*  down  on  a  shed.  If  my 
calculations  are  correct,  they're  up-stairs  jist 
now,  preparin'  for  their  campaign  on  your 
cash-box  and  jugular." — 

"Cash-box!  I  have  no  cash-box.  My 
cash  is  all  in  bank ! " 

"  Gammon.  It  won't  do.  Behind  yer 
seat  is  yer  iron  safe, — one  o'  th'  Salamand- 
ers; you're  got  ten  thousand  in  gold,  in 
that." 


Mr.  Somers  changed  color. 

"  They  intend  to  blow  up  the  lock  with 
powder,  after  they'd  fixed  your  jugular." 

Mr.  Somers  clasped  his  hands,  and  shook 
like  a  leaf. 

"  What's  to  be  done,  what's  to  be  done  ! " 
he  cried  in  perfect  agony. 

"  There's  six  o'  my  fellows  outside.  I've 
got  a  special  warrant  from  the  authorities. 
Now,  if  you've  a  key  to  Evelyn's  rooms, 
we'll  just  go  up-stairs  and  search  'em.  You 
can  stand  outside,  while  we  go  in.  But  no 
noise, — no  fuss  you  know." 

"But  they'll  murder  you,"  cried  the  mer- 
chant, "  they'll  murder  me.    They'll," — 

Blossom  drew  a  six-barreled  revolver  from 
one  pocket,  and  a  slung-shot  from  the  other. 

"  This  is  my  settler^"  he  elevated  his  re- 
volver, "  and  this,  my  gentle  persuader,"  he 
brandished  the  slung-shot. 

"  Oh  ! "  cried  Mr.  Somers,  "  property  is  no 
longer  respected, — ah !  what  times  we've 
fallen  in ! " 

"How  many  folks  have  you  in  the 
house  ?  " 

"  The  servants  sleep  in  the  fom'th  story, 
over  Eveyln's  room.  The  housekeeper  sleeps 
under  Evelyn's  room,  and  my  room  and  the 
room  of  my  private  secretary  are  just  above 
where  I  am  sitting." 

"Good.  Now  take  the  candle,  and 
come,"  responded  Blossom,  "we  want  you 
as  a  witness." 

The  merchant  prince  made  many  signs  of 
hesitation,  —  winking  his  heavy  lids,  rub- 
bing his  low  forehead  with  both  hands,  and 
pressing  his  pointed  chin  between  his  thumb 
and  forefinger,  —  but  Blossom  seized  the 
candle,  and  made  toward  the  door. 

"You  are  not  going  to  leave  me  in  the 
dark  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Somers,  bounding  from  his 
chair. 

"  Not  if  you  follow  the  light,"  responded 
Blossom  ;  "by-the-by,  you  may  as  well  bring 
the  keys  to  Evelyn's  room." 

With  a  trembling  hand,  Mr.  Somers  lifted 
a  huge  bunch  of  keys  from  the  table. 

"  There,  open  all  the  rooms  on  the  second 
and  fourth  floors,"  he  said,  and  followed 
Blossom  into  the  hall. 

There,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  stood  six 
stout  figures,  in  glazed  caps  and  great  coats 
of  rough,  dark-colored  cloth,  with  a  mace  or 


94 


FEOM  KIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MrD^^GHT. 


a  pistol  protruding  from  every  pocket  Thev 
Btood  as  silent  as  blocks  of  stone. 

"  Bovs,"  whispered  Blossom,  "  we'll  go  up 
first.  You  follow  and  station  yerselves  on 
the  second  landin',  so  as  to  be  ready  when  I 
whistle." 

A  murmur  of  assent  was  heard,  and  Blos- 
som, light  in  hand,  led  the  merchant  prince 
toward  the  stainvay  which  led  upward  from 
the  center  of  the  hall.  At  the  foot  of  the 
stainvay,  they  were  confronted  by  a  servant- 
maid,  who  had  answered  the  bell  when 
Blossom  first  rang  :  her  red,  round  cheeks 
were  pale  as  ashes,  and  she  clung  to  the 
railing  of  the  staircase  for  support. 

"  Och,  murthcr  ! "  she  ejaculated,  as  she 
beheld  the  red  face  of  Blossom,  and  the 
frightened  visage  of  her  master. 

Blossom  seized  her  arm  with  a  tight  grip, 

"  Look  here,  Biddy,  do  you  know  how  to 
sleep?"  was  the  inquiry  of  the  rubicund 
gentleman. 

"Slape  ?"  echoed  the  girl,  with  eyes  like 
saucers. 

"'Cause  if  you  don't  go  back  into  tho 
kitchen,  and  put  yourself  into  a  sound  sleep 
d'rectly  ;  yourself,  yoiu:  master  and  me,  will 
all  be  murdered  in  our  beds.  It  'ud  hurt 
my  feelin's,  Biddy,  to  see  you  with  your 
throat  cut,  and  sich  a  nice  fat  throat  as 
it  is ! " 

Biddy  uttered  a  groan,  and  shrunk  back 
behind  the  stairway. 

"  Now  then ! "  and  Blossom  led  the  way 
ap-stairs,  followed  by  the  lean,  angular 
form  of  the  merchant  prince,  who  turned  his 
head  over  his  shoulder,  like  a  man  afraid 
of  ghosts. 

They  arrived  at  the  small  entry  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  on  the  third  floor ;  three 
doors  opened  into  the  entry ;  one  on  the 
right,  one  on  the  left,  and  the  third  directly 
in  the  background,  facing  the  head  of  the 
stairs. 

"Hush  I"  whispered  Blossom,  "do  you 
hear  any  noise  ?  " 

Advancing  on  tip-toe,  he  crouched  against 
the  door  on  the  right,  and  listened.  In  an 
instant  he  came  back  to  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  where  stood  Mr,  Somers,  shaking  in 
every  nerve. 

"  It's  a  snore,"  said  Blossom,  "  jist  go  and 
listen,  and  see  if  it's  your  son's  snore." 


It  required  much  persuasion  to  induce  the 
merchant  prince  to  take  the  step. 
•*  Where  are  your  men  ?  " 
Blossom  pointed   over  the  merchant's 
shoulder,  to  the  landing  beneath.    There,  in 
the  gloom,  stood  the  six  figures,  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  and  as  motionless  as  stone. 
"!S'ow  will  you  go  ?" 
Mr.  Somers   advanced,  and  placed  his 
head  against  the  door  on  the  right.    After  a 
brief  pause,  he  returned  %o  the  head  of  the 
'  stairs  where  Blossom  stood.    "  It  is  not  my 
j  son's  snore/'  he  said,  "  that  is,  if  I  am  any 
I  judge  of  snores." 

j  Blossom  took  the  light  and  the  keys,  and 
j  advanced  to  the  door  on  the  right,  which  he 

gently  tried  to  open,  but  found  it  locked. 
[  Making  a  gesture  of  caution  to  the  merchant 
i  prince,  he  selected  the  key  of  the  door  from 
'  the  bunch,  softly  inserted  it,  and  as  softly 
[  turned  it  in  the  lock.  The  door  oi)€ned 
I  with  a  sound.    Then  stepping  on  tip-toe, 

he  crossed  the  threshold,  taking  the  light 

with  him. 

Mr.  Somers,  left  alone  in  the  dark,  felt 
his  heart  march  to  his  throat, 

"  I  shall  be  murdered, — I  know  I  sh^" 
he  muttered,  when  the  light  shone  on  his 
frightened  face  again.  Blossom  stood  in  the 
doorway,  beckoning  to  him. 

Somers  advanced  and  crossed  the  threshold. 

"Look  there,"  whispered  Blossom  "now 
d'ye  believe  me  ?  " 

A  huge  man,  dressed  in  the  jacket  and 
trowsers  of  a  convict,  was  sleeping  on  the 
bed,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  mouth  wide 
open,  and  one  arm  hanging  over  the  bed- 
side. His  chest  heaved  with  long,  deep 
respirations,  and  his  nostrils  emitted  a  snore 
of  frightful  depth. 

At  tins  confirmation  of  the  truth  of  Blos- 
som's statement,  Mr.  Somers^  face  became  as 
white  as  his  cravat 

"  Look  there  !  "  whispered  Blossom,  point- 
ing to  a  pistol  which  lay  upon  the  carpet, 
almost  within  reach  of  the  l»^wny  hand 
which  hung  over  the  bed-side, 

"Good  God  I"  ejaculated  Somers, 

"  Now  look  there  ! "  Blossom  pointed  to 
the  brandy  bottle  on  the  table,  and  held  the 
light  near  it    '■'Empty  !  d'ye  see  ?  " 

Then  Blossom  drew  from  his  capacious 
pocket,  certain  pieces  of  rope,  each  of  which 


FKOM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


95 


was  attached  to  the  middle  of  a  piece  of 
hickory,  as  hard  as  iron. 

"  Hold  the  light,"  and  like  a  nurse  attend- 
ing to  a  sleeping  babe,  the  ingenious  Blos- 
som gently  attached  one  of  the  aforesaid 
pieces  of  rope  to  the  ankles  of  the  sleeper,  in 
such  a  manner,  that  the  two  pieces  of  hick- 
ory,— one  at  either  end  of  the  rope, — formed 
a  knot,  which  a  giant  would  have  found  it 
hard  to  break.  As  the  ankles  rested  side  by 
side,  this  feat  was  not  so  difficult. 

"  Now  for  the  wrists,"  and  Blossom  quiet- 
ly regarded  the  position  of  the  sleeper's 
hands.  One  was  doubled  on  his  huge  chest, 
the  other  hung  over  the  bedside.  To 
straighten  one  arm  and  lift  the  other, — to  do 
this  gently  and  without  awaking  the  sleep- 
er,— to  tie  both  wrists  together  as  he  had  tied 
the  ankles,  —  this  was  a  difficult  task,  but 
Blossom  accomplished  it.  Once  the  convict 
moved.  "  Dont  give  it  up  so  easy  /"  he  mut- 
tered and  snored  again. 

Blossom  surveyed  him  with  great  satisfac- 
tion.— "  There's  muscle,  and  bone,  and  fists, — 
did  you  ever  see  sich  fists  !" 

"  A  perfect  bmte  !"  ejaculated  Somers. 

"Now  you  stay  here,  while  I  go  into  the 
next  room,  and  hunt  for  the  tother  one." 

This  room,  it  will  be  remembered,  com- 
municated with  an  adjoining  apartment  by 
folding-doors.  Blossom  took  the  candle  and 
listened ;  all  was  silent  beyond  the  folding- 
doors.  He  carefully  opened  these  doors,  and 
light  in  hand,  went  into  the  next  apartment. 
A  belt  of  light  came  through  the  aperture, 
and  fell  upon  the  tall,  spare  form  of  the  mer- 
chant prince,  who,  standing  in  the  center  of 
the  first  apaiiment  gazed  through  the  aper- 
ture just  mentioned,  into  the  second  room. 
All  the  movements  of  Blossom  were  open  to 
his  gaze. 

He  saw  him  approach  a  bed,  whose  ruf- 
fled coverlet  indicated  that  a  man  was  sleep- 
ing there.  He  saw  him  bend  over  this  bed, 
but  the  burly  form  of  the  police-officer  hid 
the  face  of  the  sleeper  from  the  sight  of  the 
merchant  prince.  He  saw  him  lift  the  cover- 
let, and  stand  for  a  moment,  as  if  gazing 
"Upon  the  sleeping  man,  and  then  saw  him 
start  abruptly  from  the  bed,  and  turn  his  step 
toward  the  first  room.  j 

"What's  the  matter  with  i/m^,"  cried  the 
merchant  prince,  "are  you  frightened  ?"  | 


Truth  to  tell,  the  full-moon  face  of  Blos- 
som, spotted  with  carbuncles,  had  somewhat 
changed  its  color. 

"  Can't  you  speak  ?  It's  Evelyn  who's 
sleeping  yonder,  —  isn't  it?  Hadn't  you 
better  wake  him  quietly  ?" 

"Ah  my  feller,"  and  the  broken  voice  of 
Blossom,  showed  that  he  was  human  after 
all — all  that  he  had  seen  in  his  lifetime, — 
"Ah  my  feller,  he'll  never  wake  again." 

Somers  uttered  a  cry,  seized  the  light  and 
strode  madly  into  the  next  room,  and  turned 
the  bed  where  the  sleeper  laid.  The  fallen 
jaw,  the  fixed  eyeballs,  the  hand  upon  the 
chest,  stained  with  the  blood  which  flowed 
from  the  wound  near  the  heart — he  saw  it 
all,  and  uttered  a  horrible  cry,  and  fell  like 
a  dead  man  upon  the  floor. 
[  Blossom  seized  the  light  from  his  hand  as 
he  fell,  and  turning  back  into  the  first  room 
blew  his  whistle.  The  room  was  presently 
occupied  by  the  six  assistants. 

"  There's  been  murder  done  here  to-night," 
he  said,  gruffly:  "  Potts,  examine  that  pistol 
near  the  bed.  Unloaded,  is  it  ?  Gentlemen, 
take  a  look  at  the  prisoner  and  then  follow 
me." 

He  led  the  way  into  the  second  room,  and 
they  all  beheld  the  dead  body  of  Evelyn 
Somers. 

"  Two  of  you  carry  the  old  man  down 
stairs  and  try  and  rewive  him ;"  two  of  the 
assistants  lifted  the  insensible  fomi  of  the 
merchant  prince,  and  bore  it  from  the  room. 
"  Now,  gentlemen,  we  '11  wake  the  prisoner." 

He  approached  the  sleeping  convict,  fol- 
lowed by  four  of  the  policemen,  whose  faces 
manifested  immingled  horror.  He  struck 
the  sleeping  man  on  the  shoulder, — "  Wake 
up  Gallus.    Wake  up  Gallus,  I  say  !" 

After  another  blow,  Ninety-One  unclosed 
his  eyes,  and  looked  around  with  a  vague  and 
stupefied  stare.  It  was  not  until  he  sat  up  in 
bed,  that  he  realized  the  fact,  that  his  wrists 
and  ankles  were  pinioned.  His  gaze  wan- 
dered from  the  face  of  Blossom  to  the  coun- 
tenances of  the  other  police-officers,  and  last 
of  all,  rested  upon  his  corded  hands. 

"  My  luck,"  he  said,  quietly, — "  curse  you, 
you  needn't  awakened  a  fellow  in  his  sleep. 
Why  couldn't  you  have  waited  till  mor- 
nin'  ?" 

And  he  sank  back  on  the  bed  again. 


96 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


Blossom  seized  a  pitcher  filled  with,  water, 
which  stood  upon  a  table,  and  dashed  the 
contents  in  the  convict's  face. 

Thoroughly  awake,  and  thoroughly  en- 
raged, Ninety- One  started  up  in  the  bed,  and 
gave  utterance  to  a  volley  of  curses. 

Blossom  made  a  sign  with  his  hand  ;  the 
four  policemen  seized  the  convict  and  bore 
him  into  the  second  room,  while  Blossom 
held  the  light  over  the  dead  man's  livid  face 
and  bloody  chest. 

"Do  you  see  that  bullet-hole  ?"  said  Blos- 
som ;  "  the  pistol  was  found  a-side  of  your 
bed,  near  your  hand.  Gallus,  you  '11  have  to 
dance  on  nothin',  I'm  werry  much  afeard 
you  will.  But  it  'ill  take  a  strong  rope  to 
hang  you." 

"  What !"  shouted  Ninety-One,  "  you  don't 
mean  to  say, — "  he  cast  a  horrified  look  at 
the  dead  man,  and  then,  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning, the  whole  matter  became  as  plain  as 
day  to  him.  "  Oh,  Thirty-One,"  he  groaned 
between  his  set-teeth,  "  this  is  your  dodge, — 
is  it  ?  Oh,  Thirty-One,  this  is  another  little 
item  in  our  long  account." 

"What  do  you  say?"  asked  one  of  the 
policemen.  Ninety-One  relapsed  into  a 
dogged  silence.  They  could  not  force  an- 
other word  from  him.  Carrying  him  back 
into  the  first  room,  they  laid  him  on  the 
bed,  and  secured  his  ankles  and  wrists  with 
additional  cords.  Meanwhile,  they  could 
peruse  at  their  leisure,  that  face,  whose  deep 
jaw,  solid  chin,  and  massive  throat,  covered 
with  a  stiff  beard,  manifested  at  once,  im- 
mense muscular  power,  and  an  indomitable 
will.  The  eyes  of  the  convict,  overhung  by 
his  bushy  brows,  the  cheeks  disfigured  by  a 
hideous  scar,  the  square  forehead,  with  the 
protuberance  in  the  center,  appearing  amid 
masses  of  gray  hair, — all  these  details,  were 
observed  by  the  spectatoi-s,  as  they  added 
new  cords  to  the  ankles  and  the  wrists  of 


Ninety-One. 

His  chest  shook  with  a  burst  of  laughter, 
"  Don't  give  it  up  so  easy !"  he  cried,  "  I'll 
be  even  with  you  yet,  Thirty-One." 

"  S'arch  all  the  apartments, — we  must  find 
his  comrade,"  exclaimed  Blossom, — "  a  pale- 
faced  young  devil,  whom  I  seen  with  him, 
last  night,  in  the  cars." 

Ninety-One  started,  even  as  he  lay  pinion- 
ed upon  the  bed.— "Oh,  Thirty-One,"  he 


groaned,  "  and  you  must  bring  the  boy  in  it, 
too,  must  you  ?  Just  add  another  figure  to 
our  account." 

The  four  rooms  were  thoroughly  searched, 
but  the  comrade  was  not  found. 

"  Come,  boys,"  said  Blossom,  "  we  '11  go 
down-stairs  and  talk  this  matter  over.  Gal- 
lus," directing  his  conversation  to  Ninety- 
One,  "  we'll  see  you  again,  presently." 

Ninety- One  saw  them  cross  the  threshold, 
and  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock.  He 
was  alone  in  the  darkness,  and  with  the 
dead. 

As  Blossom,  followed  by  the  policemen, 
passed  down  stairs,  he  was  confronted  on  the 
second  landing  by  the  affrighted  servants, — 
some  of  them  but  thinly  clad, — who  assailed 
him  with  questions.  Instead  of  answering 
these  multiplied  queries,  Blossom  addressed 
his  conversation  to  a  portly  dame  of  some 
forty  years,  who  appeared  in  her  night-dress 
and  with  an  enormous  nightcap. 

"  The  housekeeper,  I  believe.  Ma'am  ?" 
"Yes,  sir, — Mrs.  Tompkins,"  replied  the 
dame,  "  Oh,  do  tell  me,  what  does  this  all 
mean  ?" 

Sow's  the  old  gentleman  ?"  asked  Blos- 
som. 

"  In  his  room.  He's  reviving.  Mr.  Van 
Huyden,  his  private  secretary  is  with  him. 
But  do  tell  us  the  truth  of  this  affair — 
what — what,  does  it  all  mean  ?" 

Madam,  it  means  murder  and  blood  and 
an  old  convict.  Excuse  me,  I  must  go— down- 
stairs." 

While  the  house  rang  with  the  exclama- 
tions of  his  affrighted  listeners,  Blossom 
passed  down  stairs,  and,  with  his  assistants, 
entered  the  Library. 

"The  question  afore  the  house,  gentle- 
men, is  as  follows," — and  Blossom  sank  into 
the  chair  of  the  merchant  prince — "Shill 
we  keep  the  prisoner  up-stairs  all  night,  or 
shill  we  take  him  to  the  Tombs  ?" 

Various  opinions  were  given  by  the  police- 
men, and  the  debate  assumed  quite  an  ani- 
mated form.  Blossom,  in  all  the  dignity  of 
his  bear-skin  coat  and  carbuncled  visage, 
presiding  as  moderator. 

"Address  the  cheer,"  he  mildly  exdaimed, 
as  the  debate  grew  warm.  "Allow  me  to 
remark,  gentlemen,  that  Stuffletz,  there,  is 
very  sensible.    Stuff.,  you  think  as  the  coro- 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


97 


ner's  inquest  will  be  held  iip-stairs  by  arly 
daylight  to-morrow  mornin'  it  'ud  be  better 
to  keep  the  prisoner  there  so  as  to  confront 
him  with  the  body  ?  That's  your  opinion, 
Stuff.  Well,  I  can't  speak  for  you,  gentle- 
men, as  I  don't  b'long  to  the  reg'lar  police, — 
(I'm  only  an  extra,  you  know  !)  —  but  it 
seems  to  me,  Stuff,  is  right.  Therefore,  let 
the  prisoner  stay  up-stairs  all  night ;  the 
room  is  safe,  and  I'll  watch  him  mesself. 
Beside,  you  don't  think  he's  a-goin'  to 
tumble  himself  out  of  a  third  story  winder, 
or  vanish  in  a  puff  o'  brimstone,  as  the  devil 
does  in  the  new  play  at  the  Bowery — do 
you  ?" 

There  was  no  one  to  gainsay  the  strong 
position  thus  assumed  by  Poke-Berry  Blos- 
som, Esq. 

"  And  then  I  kin  have  a  little  private  chat 
with  him,  in  regard  to  the  $71,000, — I  guess 
I  can,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 

"  What's  the  occasion  of  this  confusion  ?" 
said  a  bland  voice  ;  and,  clad  in  his  elegant 
white  coat,  with  his  cloak  drooping  from  his 
right  shoulder,  Colonel  Tarleton  advanced 
from  the  doorway  to  the  light.  "  Passing  by 
I  saw  Mr.  Somers'  door  open,  and  hear  an 
Uproar, — what  is  the  matter,  gentlemen  ? 
My  old  friend,  Mr.  Somers,  is  not  ill,  I 
hope  ?" 

**  Evelyn,  his  son,  has  been  shot,"  bluntly 
responded  Blossom  —  "by  an  old  convict, 
who  had  hid  himself  in  the  third  story,  with 
the  idea  o'  attackin'  old  Somers'  cash-box 
and  jugular." 

Colonel  Tarleton,  evidently  shocked,  raised 
his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  staggered  to  a 
chair. 

"  Evelyn  shot !"  he  gasped,  after  a  long 
pause. — "  Surely  you  dream.  The  particu- 
lars, the  particulars — " 

Blossom  recapitulated  the  particulars  of 
the  case,  according  to  the  best  of  his  know- 
ledge. 

"It  is  too  horrible,  too  horrible,"  cried 
Tarleton,  and  his  extreme  agitation  was  per- 
ceptible to  the  policemen.  "  My  young 
friend  Evelyn  murdered  !  Ah  ! — "  he  started 
from  the  chair,  and  fell  back  again  with  his 
head  in  his  hands. 

"  But  we've  got  the  old  rag'muflfin,"  cried 
Blossom,  "  safe  and  tight ;  third  story,  back 
room." 


Tarleton  started  from  the  chair  and  ap- 
proached Blossom, — his  pale  face  stamped 
with  hatred  and  revenge. 

"  Mr.  Blossom,"  he  said,  and  snatched  tho 
revolver  from  the  pocket  of  the  rubicund 
gentleman.  "  Hah  !  it's  loaded  in  six  barrels  ! 
Murdered  Evelyn  —  in  the  back  room  you 
say — I'll  have  the  scoundrel's  life  !" 

He  snatched  the  candle  from  the  table, 
and  rushed  to  the  door.  The  policemen  did 
not  recover  from  their  surprise,  until  they, 
heard  his  steps  on  the  stairs. 

"After  him,  after  him, — there'll  be  mis- 
chief," shouted  Blossom,  and  he  rushed 
after  Tarleton,  followed  by  the  six  police- 
men. Tarleton's  shouts  of  vengeance  re- 
sounded through  the  house,  and  once  more 
drew  the  servants,  both  men  and  women,  to 
the  landing-place  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 
That  figure  attracted  every  eye — a  man 
attired  in  a  white  coat,  his  face  wild,  his  hair 
streaming  behind  him,  a  loaded  pistol  in  one 
hand  and  a  light  in  the  other. 

"  Ketch  his  coat-tails,"  shouted  Blossom, 
and,  followed  by  policemen  and  servant- 
maids,  he  rushed  up  the  second  stairway. 

He  found  Tarleton  in  the  act  of  forcing 
the  door  on  the  right,  which  led  into  the 
room  where  Ninety-One  was  imprisoned. 

"It  is  locked !  Damnation  1"  shouted 
Tarleton,  roaring  like  a  madman.  "Will 
no  one  give  me  the  key  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  give  you,"  was  the 
remark  of  Blossom.  "  I'll  give  you  one 
under  yer  ear,  if  you  don't  keep  quiet, — " 

But  his  threat  came  too  late.  Tarleton 
stepped  back  and  then  plunged  madly 
against  the  door.  It  yielded  with  a  crash. 
Then,  with  Blossom  and  the  crowd  at  his 
heels,  he  rushed  into  the  room,  brandishing 
the  pistol,  as  the  light  which  he  held  fell 
upon  his  convulsed  features, — 

"Where  is  the  wretch?  —  show  him  to 
me  !  Where  is  the  murderer  of  poor  Eve- 
lyn ?  " 

"Blossom  involuntarily  turned  his  eyes 
toward  the  bed.  It  was  empty.  Ninety-One 
was  not  there.  His  gaze  traversed  the  room  : 
a  door,  looking  like  the  doorway  of  a  closet, 
stood  wide  open  opposite  the  bed.  It 
required  but  a  moment  to  ascertain  that  the 
door  opened  upon  a  stairway. 

"  By  !  shouted  Blossom,  "  he's  gone  I 


98 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


His  comrade  has  been  concealed  somewhere,  | 
and  has  cut  him  loose." 

"Gonel"  echoed  police-officers  and  ser- 
vants. 

"  Gone  I"  ejaculated  Tarleton,  and  fell 
back  into  a  chair,  and  his  head  sunk  upon 
his  breast. 

There  he  remained  muttering  and  moan- 
ing, while  the  four  apartments  on  the  third 
floor  were  searched  in  every  corner  by 
Blossom  and  his  gang.  The  search  was  vain. 

"He  can't  be  got  far,"  cried  Blossom. 
"  Some  o'  you  go  down  into  the  yard,  and 
I'll  s'arch  this  staircase." 

Thus  speaking,  he  took  the  light  and  dis- 
appeared through  the  open  doorway  of  the 
staircase,  while  the  other  police-officers 
hastily  descended  the  main  stairway. 

Tarleton  remained  at  least  five  minutes  in 
the  darkness,  while  shouts  were  heard  in 
the  yard  behind  the  mansion.  Then,  emerg- 
ing from  the  room,  he  descended  to  the 
second  floor,  where  he  was  confronted  by  the 
housekeeper,  who  was  struck  with  pity  at 
the  sight  of  his  haggard  face. 

"  I  am  weak  —  I  am  faint ;  allow  me  to 
lean  upon  your  arm,"  said  Tarleton,  and 
supported  his  weight  upon  the  fat  arm  of 
the  good  lady.  — "  Support  me  to  the  bed- 
chamber of  my  dear  friend  Somers, — the 
father  of  poor  murdered  Evelyn." 

"  This  way,  sir,"  said  the  housekeeper, 
kindly,  "  he's  in  there,  with  his  private 
secretary — " 

"  With  his  private  secretary,  did  you  say?*^ 
faintly  exclaimed  Tarleton.  "  Close  the  door 
after  me,  good  madam,  I  wish  to  talk  with 
the  dear  old  man." 

He  entered  the  bedchamber,  leaving  the 
housekeeper  at  the  door. 

CHAPTER  XIL 
"show  me  the  way." 
A  SINGLE  lamp  stood  on  a  table,  near  a 
bed  which  was  surmounted  by  a  canopy  of 
silken  curtains.  The  room  was  spacious  and 
elegant ;  chairs,  carpet,  the  marble  mantle, 
elaborately  carved,  and  the  ceiling  adorned 
with  an  elaborate  painting,  —  all  served  to 
show  that  the  merchant  prince  slept  in  a 
"place  of  state."  Every  detail  of  that 
richly-fumished  apartment,  said  "  Gold  !"  as 


plainly  as  though  a  voice  was  speaking  it  all 
the  while. 

His  lean  form,  attired  in  every- day  apparel, 

was  stretched  upon  the  bed,  and  through  the 
aperture  in  the  curtains,  the  lamp-light  fell 
upon  one  side  of  his  face.  He  appeared  to 
be  bleeping.  His  arms  lay  listlessly  by  his 
side,  and  his  head  was  thrown  back  upon  the 
pillow.  His  breathing  was  audible  in  the 
most  distant  comer  of  the  chamber. 

"Gulian,"  said  Tarleton,  who  seemed  to 
recover  his  usual  strength  and  spirit,  as  soon 
as  he  entered  the  room,  "Where  are  you, 
my  dear  ?  " 

The  slight  form  of  the  private  secretary 
advanced  from  among  the  curtains  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed.  His  face,  almost  feminine  in  its 
expression,  appeared  in  the  light,  with  tears 
glistening  on  the  cheeks.  It  was  a  beautiful 
face,  illumined  by  large,  clear  eyes,  and 
framed  in  the  wavy  hair,  which  flowed  in 
rich  masses  to  his  shoulders.  At  sight  of  the 
elegant  Colonel,  the  blue  eyes  of  the  boy 
shone  with  a  look  of  terror.  He  started 
back,  folding  his  hands  over  the  frock  coat, 
which  enveloped  his  boyish  shape. 

"Ah,  my  God, — you  here!"  was  his 
exclamation,  "when  will  you  cease  to  per- 
secute me  ?  " 

The  Colonel  smiled,  patted  his  elegant 
whiskers,  and  drawing  nearer  to  the  boy, 
who  seemed  to  cringe  away  from  his  touch, 
he  said  in  his  blandest  tone,  — 

"  Persecute  you  !  Well,  that  is  clever  ! — 
Talk  of  gratitude  again  in  this  world !  I 
took  you  when  you  were  a  miserable  found- 
ling, a  wretched  little  baby,  without  father, 
mother,  or  name.  I  placed  you  in  the  quiet 
of  a  country  town,  where  you  received  an 
elegant  education.  I  gave  you  a  name,  —  a 
fancy  name,  I  admit  —  the  name  which  you 
now  wear  —  and  when  I  visited  you,  once  or 
twice  a  year,  you  called  me  by  the  name  of 
father.  How  I  gained  money  to  support  you 
these  nineteen  or  twenty  years,  and  to  adorn 
that  fine  intellect  of  yours,  with  a  finished 
education,  —  why,  you  don't  know,  and  I 
scarcely  can  tell,  myself.  But  after  these 
years  of  protection  and  support,  I  appeared 
at  your  home  in  the  country,  and  asked  a 
simple  favor  at  your  hands.  Ay,  child,  the 
man  you  delighted  to  call  father  asked  in 
return  for  all  that  he  had  done  for  you,  ft 


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99 


favor  —  only  one  favor  —  and  that  of  the! 
simplest  character.  Where  was  your  grati- 
tude ?  You  refused  me  ;  you  fled  from  your 
home  in  the  country,  and  I  lost  sight  of  you 
until  to-night,  when  I  find  my  lost  lamb,  in 
the  employment  of  the  rich  merchant.  His 
private  secretary,  forsooth  ! " 

"  Hush,"  exclaimed  Gulian,  with  a  depre- 
catory gesture,  "  You  will  wake  Mr.  Somers. 
He  has  had  one  convulsion  already,  and  it 
may  prove  fatal.  I  have  sent  for  a  doctor, — 
oh,  why  does  he  not  come  ?  " 

"  You  shall  not  avoid  me  in  that  way,  my 
young  friend,"  said  Tarleton.  He  laid  his 
hand  on  the  arm  of  the  boy,  and  bent  his 
face  so  near  to  him  that  the  latter  felt  the 
Colonel's  breath  upon  his  forehead.  "  The 
money  which  I  bestowed  upon  your  educa- 
tion, I  obtained  by  what  the  world  calls  fel- 
ony.  For  you — for  you  —  "  his  voice  sunk 
to  a  deeper  tone,  and  his  eyes  flashed  with 
anger  ;  "  for  you  I  spent  some  years  in  that 
delightful  retreat,  which  is  known  to  vulgar 
ears  by  the  word,  —  Penitentiary  ! " 

"  God  help  me,"  cried  the  boy,  affrighted 
by  the  expression  which  stamped  the  Colo- 
nel's face. 

"  Penitentiary  or  jail,  call  it  what  you  will, 
I  spent  some  years  there  for  your  sake.  And 
do  you  wish  to  evade  me  now  when,  I  tell 
you  that  I  reared  you  but  for  one  object,  and 
that  object  dearer  to  me  than  life  ?  You 
Tan  away  from  my  guardianship;  you  attempt 
to  conceal  yourself  from  me;  you  attempt  to 
foil  the  hope  for  which  I  have  suffered  the 
tortures  of  the  damned  these  twenty  years  ? 
Come,  my  boy,  you'll  think  better  of  it." 

The  smile  of  the  Colonel  was  altogether 
fiendish.  The  boy  sank  on  his  knees,  and 
raised  to  the  Colonel's  gaze  that  beautiful  face 
stamped  with  terror,  and  bathed  in  tears. 

"  Oh,  pardon  me — forgive  me  ! "  he  cried, 
"Do  not  kill  me  — " 
"  Kill  you  !  Pshaw  ! " 
"  Let  me  live  an  obscure  life,  away  from 
your  observation;  let  me  be  humble,  poor  and 
imknown  ;  as  you  value  the  hope  of  salva- 
tion, do  not — I  beseech  you  on  my  knees — do 
not  ask  me  to  comply  with  your  request ! " 

"If  you  don't  get  up,  I  may  be  tempted 
to  strike  you,"  was  the  brutal  remark  of  the 
Colonel.  "  Pitiful  wretch  I  Hark  ye,"  he 
bent  his  head,  —  "  the  robber  who  this  night 


to  this  house  by  means  of  a  night-key.  He 
had  an  accomplice  in  the  house,  who  supplied 
him  with  the  key.  That  accomplice,  (let  U3 
suppose  a  case)  was  yourself  —  " 

Me  ! "  cried  the  boy,  in  utter  horror. 

"I  can  obtain  evidence  of  the  fact,"  con- 
tinued the  Colonel,  and  paused.  "  You  had 
better  think  twice  before  you  enter  the  lists 
with  me  and  attempt  to  thwart  my  will." 

The  boy,  thus  kneeling,  did  not  reply,  but 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  his  flowing 
hair  hid  those  hands  with  its  luxurious 
waves.  He  shook  in  every  nerve  with  ag- 
ony.   He  sobbed  aloud. 

"  Will  you  be  quiet  ?  "  the  Colonel  seized 
him  roughly  by  the  shoulder,  "or  shall  I 
throttle  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  kill  me,  fiend,  kill  me,  oh!  kill  me 
with  one  blow:'*  the  boy  raised  his  face,  and 
pronounced  these  words,  his  eyes  flashing 
with  hatred,  as  he  uttered  the  word  fiend" 
There  was  something  startling  in  the  look  of 
mortal  hatred  which  had  so  suddenly  fixed 
itself  upon  that  beautiful  face.  Even  the 
Colonel  was  startled. 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  child,"  he  said  in  a  sooth- 
ing tone,  "get  up,  get  up,  that's  a  dear 
child  —  I  meant  no  harm  —  " 

At  this  moment  the  conversation  was  in- 
terrupted by  a  hollow  voice. 

"  You  must  pay,  sir.  That 's  my  way.  — 
You  must  pay  or  you  must  go." 

The  business-like  nature,  the  every-day 
character  of  these  words,  was  in  painful  con- 
trast with  the  hollow  accent  which  accom- 
panied their  utterance.  At  the  sound  the 
boy  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  the  Colonel  start- 
ed as  though  a  pistol  had  exploded  at  his 
ear. 

The  merchant  prince  had  risen  into  a  sit« 
ting  posture.  His  thin  features,  low,  broad 
forehead,  wide  mouth,  with  thin  lips  and 
pointed  chin,  were  thrown  strongly  into  view 
by  the  white  cravat  which  encircled  his 
throat.  Those  features  were  bathed  in  mois- 
ture. The  small  eyes,  at  other  times  half 
concealed  by  heavy  lids,  were  now  expanded 
in  a  singular  stare,  —  a  stare  which  made  the 
blood  of  the  Colonel  grow  cold  in  his  veins. 

"  God  bless  us  !  What 's  the  matter  with 
you,  good  Mr.  Somers  ?  "  he  ejaculated. 

But  the  rich  man  did  not  heed  him. 


100 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


"  I  wouldn't  give  a  snap  for  your  Eeading 
Railroad  —  bad  stock  —  bad  stock  —  it  must 
burst.  It  will  burst,  I  say.  Pay,  pay,  pay, 
or  go  !  That 's  the  only  way  to  do  busi- 
ness. D'ye  suppose  I'm  an  ass  ?  The 
note  can't  lie  over.  If  you  don't  meet  it,  it 
shall  be  protested. 

As  he  uttered  these  incoherent  words,  his 
expanding  eyes  still  fixed,  he  inserted  his 
tremulous  hand  in  his  waist-coat  pocket,  and 
took  from  thence  a  golden  eagle,  which  he 
brought  near  his  eyes,  gazing  at  it  long  and 
eagerly. 

"He's  delirious,"  ejaculated  Tarleton, 
"  why  don't  you  go  for  a  doctor  ?  " 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do?"  cried  Gulian, 
rushing  to  the  door,  "  why  doesn't  the  doc- 
tor come  ? —  " 

But  at  the  door  he  was  confronted  by  the 
buxom  housekeeper,  who  whispered,  "  Our 
doctor  is  out  of  town,  but  one  of  the  ser- 
vants has  found  another  one  :  he 's  writing 
down-stairs." 

"  Quick  !  Quick  !  Bring  him  at  once  ;  " 
and  Gulian,  in  his  flight,  pushed  the  house- 
keeper out  of  the  room. 

Mr.  Somers  still  remained  in  a  sitting  pos- 
ture, his  eye  fixed  upon  the  golden  eagle. 

"  Tel]  Jenks  to  foreclose,"  he  muttered. 


his  mild  voice,  "I  am  sufi"ering  from  a  severe 
cold."  He  then  directed  his  attention  to  the 
sick  man,  while  Gulian  and  Tarleton  watch- 
ed his  movements,  with  evident  interest. 

The  doctor  did  not  touch  the  merchant ; 
he  stood  by  the  bedside,  gazing  upon  him 
silently. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  our  friend  " 
whispered  Tarleton. 

The  doctor  did  not  answer.  He  remained 
motionless  by  the  bedside,  surveying  the 
quivering  features  and  fixed  eyes  of  the  af- 
flicted man. 

"This  person,"  exclaimed  the  doctor, 
after  a  long  pause,  is  not  suffering  from  a 
physical  complaint.  His  mind  is  afflicted. 
From  the  talk  of  the  servants  in  the  hall,  I 
learned  that  he  has  this  night  lost  his  only 
son,  by  the  hands  of  a  murderer.  The  shock 
has  been  too  great  for  him.  My  young 
friend,"  he  addressed  Gulian,  who  stood  at 
his  back,  "  it  were  as  well  to  send  for  a  cler- 
gyman." 

Gulian  hurried  to  the  door,  and  whispered 
to  the  housekeeper.  Returning  to  the  bed 
side,  he  found  the  doctor  seated  in  a  chair, 
■^^'ith  a  watch  in  his  hand,  in  full  view  of  the 
delirious  man.  The  Colonel,  grasping  the 
bed-curtain,  stood  behind  him,  in  an  attitude 


I've  nothing  to  do  with  the  man's  wife  [of  profound  thought,  yet  with  a  faint  smile 
and  children.     It  isn't  in  the  way  of  busi-  upon  his  lips. 

ness.     The  mortgage  isn't  paid,  and  we      As  for  the  merchant  prince,  seated  bolt 

upright  in  the  bed,  he  clutched  the  golden 
eagle,  (which  seemed  to  have  magnetized 
his  gaze),  and  babbled  in  his  delirium  — 

"  You  an  heir  of  Trinity  Church  ? "  he 
said,  with  a  mocking  smile  upon  his  thin 
lips,  "  you  one  of  the  descendants  of  Anreke 
Jans  Bogardus  ?  Pooh  !  Pooh  !  The  Church 
is  firm,— j^m.  She  defies  you.  Aaron  Bun- 
tried  that  game,  he  !  he  !  and  found  it  best  to 
quit,  —  to  quit  —  to  quit.  What  Trinity 
Church  has  got,  she  will  hold, — hold — hold. 
She  buys,  —  she  sells  —  she  sells  —  she 
buys  —  a  great  business  man  is  Trinity 
Church  !  And  with  your  two  hundred  beg- 
garly heirs  of  Anreke  Jans  Bogardus,  you 
will  go  to  law  about  her  title.    Pooh  !" 

"  He  is  going  fast,"  whispered  the  Doctor, 
"his  mind  is  killing  him.  Where  are  his 
relatives  ?  " 

His  relatives  !  Sad,  sad  word  !  His  wife 
had  been  dead  many  years,  and  her  relatives 


must  sell  —  sell  —  sell, —  sell,"  he  repeated 
until  his  voice  died  away  in  a  murmur. 

The  doctor  entered  the  room.  "Where 
is  our  patient  ?  "  he  said,  as  he  advanced  to 
the  bedside.  He  was  a  man  somewhat  ad- 
vanced in  years,  with  bent  figure  and  stoop- 
ing shoulders.  He  was  clad  in  an  old-fash- 
ioned surtout,  with  nine  or  ten  heavy  capes 
hanging  about  his  shoulders  ;  and,  as  if  to 
protect  him  from  the  cold,  a  bright-red  ker- 
chief was  tied  about  his  neck  and  the  lower 
part  of  his  face.  He  wore  a  black  fur  hat, 
with  an  ample  brim,  which  effectually  shaded 
his  features. 

The  Colonel  started  at  the  sight  of  this 
singular  figure.  "  Our  friend  of  the  blue 
capes,  as  I 'm  alive ! "  he  muttered  half 
aloud. 

The  doctor  advanced  to  the  bedside. — 
"  You  will  excuse  me  for  retaining  my  hat 
and  this  kerchief  about  my  neck,"  he  said  in 


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101 


were  at  a  distance ;  perchance  in  a  foreign 
land.  His  yiearest  relative  was  a  corpse,  up- 
stairs, with  a  pistol  wound  through  his 
heart. 

Evelyn  Somers,  Sen.,  was  one  of  the  rich- 
est men  in  New  York,  and  yet  there  was  not 
a  single  relative  to  stand  by  his  dying-bed. 
The  death-sweat  on  his  fevered  brow,  the 
whiteness  of  death  on  his  quivering  lips,  the 
fire  of  the  grave  in  his  expanding  eyes, 
Evelyn  Somers,  the  merchant  prince,  had 
neither  wife  nor  child  nor  relative  to  stand 
by  him  in  his  last  hour.  The  poor  boy  who 
wept  by  the  bed-side  was,  perchance,  his 
only  friend. 

"  Cornelius  Berman,  the  artist,  (who  died, 
I  believe,  some  years  ago,)  was  his  only  rela- 
tive in  New  York  :  his  only  son  out  of 
view."  This  was  the  answer  of  Colonel 
Tarleton,  to  the  question  of  the  Doctor. 

And  the  dying  man,  still  sitting  bolt  up- 
right, one  hand  on  his  knee,  and  the  other 
grasping  the  golden  coin,  still  babbled  in  his 
delirium  in  the  hollow  tone  of  death.  He 
talked  of  everything.  He  bought  and  sold, 
received  rent  and  distressed  tenants,  paid 
notes  and  protested  them,  made  imaginary 
sums  by  the  sale  of  stocks,  and  achieved 
imaginary  triumphs  by  the  purchase  of  profit- 
able tracts  of  land, — it  was  a  frightful  scene. 

The  Doctor  shuddered,  and  as  he  looked 
at  his  watch,  muttered  a  word  of  prayer. 

The  Colonel  turned  his  face  away,  but 
was  forced  by  an  involuntary  impulse,  to 
turn  again  and  gaze  upon  that  livid  coun- 
tenance. 

The  boy  Gulian — in  the  shadows  of  the 
room — sunk  on  his  knees  and  uttered  a 
prayer,  broken  by  sobs. 

At  length  the  dying  man  seemed  to  re- 
cover a  portion  of  his  consciousness.  Turn- 
ing his  gaze  from  the  golden  coin  which  he 
still  clutched  in  his  fingers,  he  said  in  a  voice 
which,  in  some  measure,  resembled  his 
e very-day  tone, — 

"  Send  for  a  minister,  a  minister,  quick  !  I 
am  very  weak." 

The  words  had  scarcely  passed  his  lips, 
when  a  soft  voice  exclaimed,  "I  am  here, 
my  dear  friend  Somers,  I  trust  that  this  is 
not  serious.  A  sad,  sad  affliction,  you  have 
encountered  to-night.  But  you  must  cheer 
up,  you  must,  indeed." 


The  minister  had  entered  the  room  un- 
perceived,  and  now  stood  by  the  bed-side. 

"  Herman  Bamhiurst !  "  ejaculated  Colonel 
Tarleton. 

The  tall,  slender  figure  of  the  clergyman, 
dressed  in  deep  black,  was  disclosed  to  the 
gaze  of  the  dying  man,  who  gazed  intently 
at  his  blonde  face,  effeminate  in  its  excessive 
fairness,  and  then  exclaimed,  reaching  his 
hand, — 

"  Come,  I  am  going.  I  want  you  to  show 
me  the  way  ! " 

"Really,  my  dear  friend,"  began  Bam- 
hurst,  passing  his  hand  over  his  hair,  which, 
straight  and  brown  and  of  silken  softness, 
fell  smoothly  behind  his  ears,  "you  must 
bear  up.  This  is  not  so  serious  as  you  im- 
agine." 

"I  tell  you  I  am  going.  I  have  often 
heard  you  preach,  —  once  or  twice  in 
Trinity — I  rather  liked  you — and  now  I 
want  you  to  show  me  the  way !  Do  you 
see  there?"  he  extended  his  trembling 
hand,  "  there's  the  way  I'm  going.  Its  all 
dark.  You're  a  minister  of  my  church  too  ; 
I  want  you  to  show  me  the  way  f  " 

There  was  a  terrible  emphasis  in  the 
accent, — a  terrible  entreaty  in  the  look  of 
the  dying  man. 

The  Rev.  Herman  Barnhurst  sank  back 
in  a  chair,  much  affected. 

"  Has  he  made  his  will  ? "  he  whispered 
to  the  Doctor,  ''so  much  property  and  no 
heirs  :  he  could  do  so  much  good  with  it. 
Had  not  you  better  send  for  a  lawyer  ?  " 

The  Doctor  regarded,  for  a  moment,  the 
fair  complexion,  curved  nose,  warm,  full 
lips,  and  rounded  chin  of  the  young  minis- 
ter ;  and  then  answered,  in  a  low  voice, 

"  You  are  a  minister.  It  is  your  duty  not 
altogether  to  preach  eloquent  sermons,  and 
show  a  pair  of  delicate  hands  from  the  sum- 
mit of  a  marble  pulpit.  It  is  your  duty  to 
administer  comfort  by  the  dying-bed,  where 
humbug  is  stripped  of  its  mark,  and  death  is 
the  only  reality.  Do  your  duty,  sir.  Save 
this  man's  soul." 

"  Yes,  save  my  soul,"  cried  Somers,  who 
heard  the  last  words  of  the  Doctor,  "I  don't 
want  the  offices  of  the  chiu-ch  ;  I  don't  want 
prayers.  I  want  comfort,  comfort ;  naio.''* 
He  paused,  and  then  reaching  forth  his 
hand,  said  in  a  low  voice,  half  broken  by  a 


102 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


burst  of  horrible  laughter,  "  There's  the  way 
I've  got  to  travel.  Now  tell  me,  minister, 
do  you  really  believe  that  there  is  anything 
there  ?  When  we  die,  we  die,  don't  we  ? 
Sleep  and  rot,  rot  and  sleep,  don't  we  ?  " 

Herman,  who  was  an  Atheist  at  heart, 
though  he  had  never  confessed  the  truth 
even  to  himself — Herman,  who  was  a  min- 
ister for  the  sake  of  a  large  salary,  fine  car- 
riage, and  splendid  house — Herman,  who 
was,  in  fact,  an  intellectual  voluptuary,  de- 
voting life  and  soul  to  the  gratification  of 
one  appetite,  which  had,  with  him,  become 
a  monomania — Herman,  now,  for  the  first 
moment  in  his  life,  was  conscious  of  a  some- 
thing heyond  the  grave ;  conscious  that  this 
religion  of  Christ,  the  Master,  which  he  used 
as  a  trade,  was  something  more  than  a  trade  ; 
was  a  fact,  a  reality,  at  once  a  hope  and  a 
judgment. 

And  the  Rev.  Herman  Barnhurst  felt  one 
throe  of  remorse,  and  shuddered.  Vailing 
his  fair  face  in  his  delicate  hands,  he  gave 
himself  up  to  one  moment  of  terrible  re- 
flection. 

"  He  is  failing  fast,"  whispered  the  Doc- 
tor ;  "  you  had  better  say  a  word  of  hope  to 
him." 

"  Yes,  the  camel  is  going  through  the  eye 
of  the  needle,"  cried  Somers,  with  a  burst 
of  shrill  laughter.  "  Minister,  did  you  ever 
see  a  camel  go  through  the  eye  of  a  needle  ? 
Oh  !  you  fellows  preach  such  soft  and  vel- 
vety sermons  to  us, — but  you  never  say  a 
word  about  the  camel — never  a  word  about 
the  camel.  You  see  us  buy  and  sell, — you 
see  us  hard  landlords,  careful  business  men, — 
you  see  us  making  money  day  after  day, 
and  year  after  year,  at  the  cost  of  human 
life  and  human  blood, — and  you  never  say  a 
word  about  the  camel.  Never  !  never  !  Why 
we  Tceep  such  fellows  as  you,  for  our  use  : 
for  every  thousand  that  we  make  in  trade, 
we  give  3^ou  a  good  discount,  in  the  way  of 
salary,  and  so  as  we  go  along,  we  keep  a 
debit  and  credit  account  with  what  you  call 
Providence.  Now  rub  out  my  sins,  will 
you  ?    I've  paid  you  for  it,  I  believe  !  " 

"  Poor  friend  !  He  is  delirious  !"  ejacu- 
lated Hennan  Barnhurst. 

The  boy  Gulian,  (unperceived  by  the 
doctor,)  brought  a  golden-clasped  Bible,  and 
laid  it  on  the  minister's  knees.    Then  look- 


ing with  a  shudder  at  the  livid  face  of  the 
merchant  prince,  he  shrank  back  into  the 
shadows,  first  whispering  to  the  minister — 
**  Read  to  him  from  this  book." 

Somers,  with  his  glassy  eye,  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  book,  as  in  its  splendid  bind- 
ing, it  rested  on  the  minister's  knees — 

"  Pooh  !  pooh !  you  needn't  read.  Be- 
cause if  that  book  is  true,  why  then  I've 
made  a  bad  investTnent  of  my  life.  I  never 
deceived  myself.  I  always  looked  upon  this 
thing  you  call  religion  as  a  branch  of  trade — 
a  cloak — a  trap.  But  now  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  one  thing,  (and  I've  paid  enough 
money  to  have  a  decent  answer)  :  Do  you 
really  believe  that  there  is  anything  after  this 
life  ?  Speak,  minister !  Don't  we  go  to 
sleep  and  rot, — and  isn't  that  all  ?  " 

Herman  did  not  answer. 

But  the  voice  of  the  boy  Gulian,  who  was 
kneeling  in  the  shadows  of  the  death- 
chamber,  broke  through  the  stillness — 

"There  is  something  beyond  the  grave. 
There  is  a  God  !  There  is  a  heaven  and  a 
hell.  There  is  a  hope  for  the  repentant,  and 
there  is  a  judgment  for  the  impenitent." 

There  was  something  almost  supernatural 
in  the  tones  of  the  boy's  voice,  breaking  so 
slowly  and  distinctly  upon  the  profound 
stillness. 

The  spectators  started  at  the  sound  ;  and 
as  for  the  dying  man,  he  picked  at  his 
clothing  and  at  the  coverlet  with  his  long 
fingers,  now  chilling  fast  with  the  cold  of 
death  —  and  muttered  incoherent  soimds, 
without  sense  or  meaning  of  any  kind. 

"  His  face  has  a  horrible  look  1"  ejaculated 
the  Colonel ;  who  was  half  hidden  among 
the  curtains  of  the  bed. 

"  He  is  going  fast,"  said  the  Doctor,  looking 
at  his  watch.  "  In  five  minutes  all  will  be 
over, — " 

"  And  you  said,  I  believe,  that  he  had  not 
made  his  will  ?" 

It  was  Herman  who  spoke.  The  sensation 
of  remorse  had  been  succeeded  by  his  accus- 
tomed tone  of  feeling.  His  face  was  im- 
pressed with  the  profound  selfishness  which 
impelled  his  words.  **  He  had  better  make 
his  will.  Without  heirs,  he  can  leave  hii 
fortune  to  the  church, — " 

*'  For  shame  !  for  shame  !"  cried  the  Doc- 
tor. 


FEOM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


103 


"A  little  too  greedy,  my  good  friend,"  the 
Colonel,  at  his  back,  remarked.  "  Allow  me 
to  remark,  that  your  conduct  manifests  too 
much  of  the  Levite,  and  too  little  of  the 
gentleman." 

Herman  bit  his  lip,  and  was  silent. 

After  this,  there  was  no  word  sj-yoken  for  a 
long  time. 

The  spectators  watched  in  silence  the 
struggles  of  the  dying  man. 

How  he  died  ! — I  shudder  but  to  write  it ; 
and  would  not  write  it,  were  I  not  convinced 
that  atheism  in  the  church  is  the  grand  cause 
of  one  half  of  the  crimes  and  evils  that 
afflict  the  world. 

The  death-bed  of  the  atheist  church- 
member,  with  the  ATHEIST  minister  sitting 
by  the  bed,  was  a  horrible  seen*. 

I  see  that  picture,  now  : — 

A  vast  room,  furnished  with  all  the  inci- 
dents of  -wealth,  lofty  ceiling,  walls  adorned 
with  pictures,  and  carpet  that  was  woven  in 
human  blood.  A  single  lamp  on  the  table 
near  the  bed,  breaks  the  gloom.  The 
curtains  of  that  bed  are  of  satin,  the  pillow 
is  of  down,  the  coverlet  is  spotless  as  the 
snow  ;  and  there  a  long  slender  frame,  and  a 
face  with  the  seal  of  sixty  years  of  life  upon 
it,  attract  the  gaze  of  silent  spectators. 

The  doctor — his  face  shaded  by  the  wide 
rim  of  his  hat,  sits  by  the  bed,  watch  in 
hand. 

Behind  him  appears  the  handsome  face 
of  Colonel  Tarleton — the  man  of  the  world, 
whose  form  is  shrouded  in  the  curtains. 

A  little  apart,  kneels  the  boy,  Gulian, 
whose  beautiful  face  is  stamped  with  awe 
and  bathed  in  tears. 

And  near  the  head  of  the  bed,  seated  on 
a  chair,  which  touches  the  pillow  upon  which 
rests  the  head  of  the  dying  —  behold-the  tall 
form  and  aquiline  face  of  the  minister,  who 
listens  to  the  moans  of  death,  and  subdues  his 
conscience  into  an  expression  of  calm  serenity. 

The  dying  man  is  seized  with  a  spasm, 
which  throws  his  limbs  into  horrible  contor- 
tions. He  writhes,  and  struggles,  with  hands 
and  feet,  as  tho\igh  wrestling  with  a  mur- 
derer :  he  utters  horrible  cries.  At  length, 
raising  himself  in  a  sitting  posture,  he  pro- 
jects his  livid  face  into  the  light;  he  reaches 
forth  his  arm,  a'ld  grasps  the  minister  by  the 
wrist,  —  the  minister  utters  an  involuntary 
7 


cry  of  pain, — for  that  grasp  is  like  the  in-es- 
sure  of  an  iron  vice. 

"Not  a  word  about  the  camel, — hey,  min- 
ister ?" 

That  was  the  last  word  of  Evelyn  Somcrs, 
Sen.,  the  merchant  prince. 

There,  projecting  from  the  bed-curtains 
his  livid  face, — there,  with  features  distorted 
and  eyes  rolling,  the  last  glance  upon  the 
evidences  of  wealth,  which  filled  the  cham- 
ber,— there,  even  as  he  clasped  the  minister 
by  the  wrist,  he  gasped  his  last  breath,  and 
was  a  dead  man. 

It  was  with  an  effort  that  Herman  Barn- 
hurst  disengaged  his  wrist  from  the  gripe  of 
the  dead  man's  hand.  As  he  tore  the  hand 
away,  a  golden  eagle  fell  from  it,  and 
sparkled  in  the  light,  as  it  fell.  The  rich 
man  couldn't  take  it  with  him,  to  the  place 
where  he  was  going, — not  even  one  piece  of 
gold. 

The  Rev.  Herman  Barnhurst  rose  and  left 
the  room  without  once  looking  back. 

The  doctor,  also,  rose  and  straightened  the 
dead  man's  limbs,  and  closed  his  eyes.  This 
done,  he  drew  his  broad-brimmed  hat  over 
his  brow,  and  left  the  room  without  a 
word — yes,  he  si)oke  four  words,  as  he  left 
the  place  :  "  One  out  of  seven  !"  he  said. 

The  Colonel  emerged  from  the  curtains ; 
he  was  ashy  pale,  and  he  tottered  as  he 
walked.  This  time  his  agitation  was  not  a 
sham.  Once  he  looked  back  upon  the  dead 
man's  face,  and  then  directed  his  steps  to  the 
door. 

"Remember,  Gulian,"  he  whispered  as  he 
passed  the  kneeling  boy :  "  to-morrow  I 
will  see  you." 

Gulian,  still  on  his  knees  in  the  center  of 
the  apartment,  prayed  God  to  be  merciful  to 
the  dead, — to  the  dead  son,  whose  corpse  lay 
in  the  room  above,  and  to  the  dead  father, 
whose  body^was  stretched  before  his  eyes. 

Tarleton  paused  for  a  moment  on  the 
threshold,  with  his  hand  upon  the  knob  of 
the  door — 

"If  Cornelius  Berman  were  alive,  he 
would  inherit  this  immense  estate !"  mut- 
tered the  Colonel.  "As  it  is,  here  is  a  palace 
with  two  dead  bodies  in  it,  and  no  heir  to 
:  inherit  the  wealth  of  the  corpse  which  only 
I  half  an  hour  ago  was  the  owner  of  half  a 
'  million  dollars.    But  it  is  no  time  to  medi- 


104 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


tate.  There's  work  for  me  at  the  tem- 
ple." 

Turning  from  that  stately  mansion,  in 
which  father  and  son  lay  dead,  we  will  fol- 
low the  steps  of  Rev.  Herman  Barnhurst. 

CHAPTER  XIIL 

THE  REVEREND  VOLUPTUARIES. 

As  the  Rev.  Herman  Barnhurst  passed 
from  the  hall-door  of  the  palace  of  the  mer- 
chant prince,  and  descended  the  marble  steps, 
his  thoughts  were  by  no  means  of  a  pleasant 
character.  The  image  of  Alice,  for  the  mo- 
ment forgotten,  the  thoughts  of  Herman  were 
occupied  with  the  scene  which  he  had  just 
witnessed, — the  hopeless  death-bed  of  the 
merchant  prince. 

"  The  fool !"  muttered  Herman,  drawing 
his  cloak  around  him,  and  pulling  his  hat 
over  his  brows,  "  The  miserable  fool  !  To 
die  without  making  a  will,  when  he  has  no 
heirs  and  the  church  has  done  so  much  for 
him.  Why  (in  his  own  phrase)  it  has  been 
capital  to  him,  in  the  way  of  reputation  ;  he 
has  grown  rich  by  that  reputation  ;  and  now 
he  dies,  leaving  the  church  and  her  minis- 
ters,— ^not  a  single  copper,  not  a  single  cop- 
per." 

It  was  too  early  for  Herman  to  return  to 
his  home, — so  he  thought,  —  therefore,  he 
directed  his  steps  toward  Broadway,  resolv- 
ing, in  spite  of  the  late  hour  of  the  night,  to 
pay  a  visit  to  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends. 

But,  as  he  left  the  palace  of  the  merchant 
prince,  a  man  wrapped  also  in  a  cloak,  and 
with  a  cap  over  his  eyes,  rose  from  the 
shadows  behind  the  marble  steps,  and  walk- 
ed with  an  almost  noiseless  pace  in  the  foot- 
steps of  the  young  clergyman. 

This  man  had  seen  Herman  enter  the 
house  of  the  merchant  prince.  Standing 
himself  in  the  darkness  behind  the  steps,  he 
had  waited  patiently  until  Herman  again 
appeared.  In  fact,  he  had  followed  the 
steps  of  the  clergyman  for  at  least  three 
hours  previous  to  the  moment  when  he  came 
to  the  residence  of  Evelyn  Somers,  Sr.;  fol- 
lowed him  from  street  to  street,  from  house 
to  house,  walking  fast  or  slow,  as  Herman 
quickened  or  moderated  his  pace  ;  stopping 
when  Herman  stopped  ;  and  thus,  for  three 
long  hours,  he  had  dogged  the  steps  of  the 


clergyman  with  a  patience  and  perseverance, 
that  must  certainly  have  been  the  result  of 
some  powerful  motive. 

And  now,  as  the  Rev.  Herman  Barnhurst 
left  the  house  where  the  merchant  prince 
lay  dead,  the  man  in  cap  and  cloak,  quietly 
resumed  his  march,  like  a  veteran  at  the  tap 
of  the  drum. 

At  the  moment  when  Herman  reached  a 
dark  point  of  the  street  near  Broadway,  the 
MAN  stole  noiselessly  to  his  side  and  tapped 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

Herman  turned  with  an  ejaculation, — half 
fear,  half  wonder.  The  street  was  dark  and 
deserted  ;  the  lights  of  Broadway  shone  two 
hundred  yards  ahead.  Herman,  at  a  glance, 
saw  that  himself  and  the  man  were  the  only 
persons  visible. 

"  It's  a  thief,"  he  thought, — and  then,  said 
aloud,  in  his  sweetest  voice  :  "What  do  you 
want,  my  friend  ?" 

The  twenty-fifth  of  December  is  near,''^  said 
the  MAN,  in  a  slow  and  significant  voice:  "I 
have  important  information  to  communicate 
to  you,  in  relation  to  the  Van  Huyden  estate." 

Herman  was,  of  course,  interested  in  the 
great  estate,  as  one  of  the  seven  ;  but  he  ha<i 
a  deeper  interest  in  it,  than  the  reader, — at 
present,  can  imagine.  The  words  of  the 
Man,  therefore,  agitated  him  deeply. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"  That  I  will  tell  you,  when  you  have 
taken  me  to  a  place,  where  we  can  converse 
freely  together." 

Herman  hesitated. 

"  Well,  as  you  will,"  said  the  man — "  It 
concerns  you  as  much  as  it  does  me.  You 
are  afraid  to  grant  me  an  interview.  Good 
night—" 

Thus  speaking,  he  carelessly  turned  away. 

Now  Herman  was  •  afraid  of  the  man,  but 
there  were  other  Men  of  whom  he  was  more 
afraid.  So  balancing  one  fear  against  another, 
he  came  to  this  conclusion,  that  the  Man 
might  communicate  something,  which  would 
save  him  from  the  other  Men,  and  so  he 
called  the  stranger  back. 

"  Why  this  concealment  ?"  he  asked. 

"  You  will  confess,  after  we  have  talked 
together,  that  I  have  good  reasons  for  this 
concealment,"  was  the  ansAver  of  the  Man. 

"  Come,  then,  with  me,"  said  Herman,  "  I 
will  not  take  you  to  my  own  rooms,  but  I 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


105 


"will  take  you  to  the  rooms  of  a  friend.  He 
is  out  of  town  and  we  can  converse  at  our 
ease." 

He  led  the  M-ay  toward  the  room  of  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Bulgin,  whom  the  profane  some- 
times called  Bulging,  which,  as  the  learned 
know,  is  good  Ethiopian  for  Steam  Engine. 
This  seemed  to  imply  that  the  Rev,  Dr.  was 
a  perfect  Locomotive  in  his  way. 

*'  My  friend  Bulgin,"  said  Herman,  as  they 
arrived  in  front  of  a  massive  four  story  build- 
ing, on  a  cross  street,  not  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  from  the  head  of  Broadway, 
"  occupies  the  entire  upper  floor  of  this  house, 
as  a  study.  There  he  secludes  himself  while 
engaged  in  the  composition  of  his  more  ela- 
borate works.  He  has  a  body  servant  and  a 
maid  servant  to  wait  upon  him  ;  and  a  parlor 
down  stairs,  for  the  reception  of  his  visitors ; 
but  he  has  no  communication  with  the  other 
'  art  of  the  house.  In  fact,  he  never  sees  the 
occupants  of  the  boarding-house  beneath  his 
study.  He  rents  his  rooms  of  the  lady  who 
keeps  the  boarding-house, — Mrs.  Smelgin, — 
who  supplies  his  meals.  Thus,  he  has  the 
upper  part  of  the  house  all  to  himself;  and 
as  I  have  a  key  to  his  rooms,  we  can  go 
Tip  there  and  talk  at  our  ease." 

"  But,  is  not  Dr.  Bulgin  married.  ?"  asked 
the  MAN. 

"  He  is.  But  his  lady,  on  account  of  her 
health  (she  cannot  bear  the  noise  of  the  city), 
is  forced  to  reside  in  the  country  with  her 
father." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  man, 

Herman  opened  the  front  door  with  a 
night  key,  a«d  led  the  way  along  a  hall  and 
up  three  ranges  of  stairs,  until  he  came  to  a 
door.  This  door  he  opened  with  another 
key,  and  followed  by  the  man,  he  entered 
Dr.  Bulgin's  study.  He  then  locked  the 
door,  and  they  found  themselves  enveloped 
in  Egyptian  darkness. 

"  This  may  be  Dr.  Bulgin's  study,  but  it 
strikes  me,  a  little  light  would  not  do  it 
much  harm." 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  Barnhurst, — "I'll 
light  the  lamp."  And  presently,  by  the  aid 
of  matches,  he  lighted  a  lamp  which  stood 
on  a  table  of  variegated  marble.  A  globular 
shade  of  an  exquisite  pattern  tempered  the 
rays  of  the  lamp,  and  filled  the  place  with 
a  light  that  was  eminently  soft  and  luxurious. 


"  Be  seated,"  said  Barnhurst,  but  the 
stranger  remained  standing,  with  his  cloak 
wound  about  him  and  his  cap  drawn  over 
his  brows.  He  was  evidently  examining  the 
details  of  the  study  with  an  attentive, — may 
be — an  astonished  gaze. 

Dr.  Bulgin's  study  was  worthy  of  exami- 
nation. 

It  was  composed  of  the  upper  floor  of  Mrs. 
Smelgin's  boarding-house,  and  was,  there- 
fore, a  vast  room,  its  depth  and  breadth  cor- 
responding to  the  depth  and  breadth  of  the 
house. 

It  was,  at  least,  thirty  yards  in  length  and 
twenty  in  breadth,  and  the  ceiling  was  of 
corresponding  height.  Four  huge  windows 
faced  the  east,  and  four  the  west. 

Thus,  vast  and  roomy,  the  apartment  was 
furnished  in  a  style  which  might  well  excit.e 
the  attentive  gaze  of  the  stranger. 

In  the  center  of  the  southern  wall,  stood 
the  bookcase,  an  elegant  fabric  of  rosewood, 
surmounted  by  richly-carved  work,  and 
crowned  with  an  alabaster  bust  of  Leo  the 
Tenth ;  the  voluptuous  Pope  who  drank 
his  wine,  v/hile  poor  Martin  Luther  was 
overturning  the  world. 

The  shelves  of  this  bookcase  were  stored 
with  the  choicest  books  of  five  languages ; 
some  glittering  in  splendid  binding,  and 
others  looking  ancient  and  venerable  in  their 
faded  covers.  There  were  the  most  recon- 
dite works  in  English,  French,  German, 
Spanish ;  and  there  were  also  the  most 
popular  works  in  as  many  languages.  The- 
ology, metaphysics,  mathematics,  geometry, 
poetry,  the  drama,  history,  fact,  fiction, — all 
were  there,  and  of  all  manner  of  shapes, 
styles  and  ages.  It  was  a  very  Noah's 
Ark  of  literature,  into  which  seemed  to  have 
been  admitted  one  specimen,  at  least,  of 
every  book  in  the  universe. 

On  the  right  of  the  bookcase  was  a  sofa 
that  made  you  sleepy  just  to  look  at  it ;  it 
was  so  roomy,  and  its  ^ed-velvet  cushioning 
looked  so  soft  and  tempting.  This  sofa  was 
framed  in  rosewood^  with  little  rosewood 
cupids  wreathed  around  its  legs. 

And  on  the  left  of  the  bookcase  was 
another  sofa  of  a  richer  style,  and  of  a  more 
sleep-impelling  exterior. 

Above  each  sofa  hung  a  picture,  concealed 
by  a  thick  curtain^ 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


106 

Along  the  northern  Avail  of  the  study 
were  disposed  a  sofa  as  magnificent  as  the 
others,  and  a  series  of  marble  pedestals  and 
red-velvet  ai-m-chairs.  Every  pedestal  was 
crowned  by  an  alabaster  vase  or  statue  of 
white  marble.  There  were  Eve,  Apollo, 
Canova's  Venus,  and  the  Three  Graces, — 
all  exquisite  originals  or  exquisite  copies,  in 
snowy  marble. 

The  arm-chairs  were  arm-chairs  indeed. 
Eed-velvet  cushions  and  high  backs  and 
great  broad  arms  ;  they  were  the  idea  of  a 
happy  brain,  impregnated  with  belief  in 
Sancho's  "  Blessed  be  the  man  that  invented 
sleep." 

And  this  northern  wall  was  hung  with 
pictures  in  massive  frames,  richly  gilt ;  the 
frames  \fere  exposed,  but  the  pictures  were 
vailed. 

In  the  intervals  between  the  western 
windows  were  pedestals  crowned  with  vases, 
and  mosaic  tables  loaded  with  objects  of 
viHu :  exquisite  trifles  of  all  sorts,  gleaned 
from  the  Old  World. 

And  in  the  intervals  between  the  eastern 
windows  were  recesses,  covered  with  hang- 
ings of  pale  crimson.  What  is  concealed 
in  those  recesses,  doth  not  yet  appear.  Both 
eastern  and  western  windows  were  curtained 
with  folds  of  intermingled  white  and  damask, 
floating  luxuriantly  from  the  ceiling  to  the 
floor. 

The  floor  was  covered  with  an  Axminster 
carpet  of  the  richest  dyes. 

Gilt  mouldings  ran  around  the  ceiling, 
and  in  the  center  thereof,  was  a  cupid,  en- 
circled by  a  huge  weath  of  roses,  and  re- 
posing on  a  day -break  cloud.  ^ 

The  table,  of  variegated  marble,  which 
stood  in  the  center  of  the  study,  was  sur- 
rounded by  three  arm-chairs  of  the  same 
style  as  those  which  lined  the  wall.  It  was 
circular  in  form,  and  upon  it,  appeared  an 
elegant  alabaster  inkstand,  gold  pens  with 
pearl  handles,  gilt-en^ed  paper  touched 
with  perfume,  a  few  choice  books,  and  an 
exquisite  "  Venus  in  the  Shell,"  done  in  ala- 
baster. One  of  these  books  was  a  modern 
edition  of  the  Golden  Ass  of  Apuleius  ;  and 
the  other  was  a  choice  translation  of  Ea- 
belais. 

Altogether,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bulgin's  room 
was  one  of  those  rooms  worthy  of  a  place 


in  history  ;  and  which,  may  be,  could  tell 
strange  histories,  were  its  chairs  and  tables 
gifted  with  the  power  of  speech. 

"And  this  is  the  study  of  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Bulgin  !"  ejaculated  the  man. 

"  It  is,"  replied  Herman,  flinging  himself 
into  an  arm-chair ;  "  here  he  composes  his 
most  elaborate  theological  works." 

"Why  is  his  library  crowned  with  that 
bust  of  Leo  the  Tenth,  the  Atheist  and 
Sensualist  ?  " 

"  He  is  Avriting  a  work  on  the  age  of  Lu- 
ther," replied  Hei-man. 

"  Oh  ! "  responded  the  man. 

"  And  this  !  "  the  man  drew  the  vail  and 
bore  one  of  the  pictures  to  the  light :  "  and 
this  !  what  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"You  are  inquisitive,  sir,"  replied  Her- 
man, somewhat  confounded  by  the  sudden 
disclosure  of  this  singular  picture,  "  why,  in 
fact.  Dr.  Bulgin  is  writing  a  tract  agoAnst  im- 
moral pictures." 

"  A-h  ! "  responded  the  man,  and  picked 
from  the  table  the  Golden  Ass  of  Apuleius, 
illustrated  with  plates,  "  what  does  this  do 
here  ?  Are  these  plates  to  be  understood  in 
a  theological  sense  ?  " 

"  Dr.  Bulgin  is  getting  up  a  treatise  upon 
the  subject  of  immoral  literature.  He  has 
that  book  as  an  example." 

"And  when  he  writes  a  treatise  on  the 
infernal  regions,  he 'd  send  there  for  a  piece 
of  the  brimstone  as  an  example  ?  " 

"  You  are  profane,"  said  Herman,  tartly ; 
"  let  me  hope  that  you  will  proceed  to  busi- 
ness." 

The  man  placed  his  cloak  on  a  chair,  and 
his  cap  on  the  table.  Then  seating  himself 
opposite  the  minister,  he  gazed  steadily  in 
his  face.  Herman  grew  red  in  the  face,  and 
felt  as  though  he  had  suddenly  been  plunged 
into  an  oven. 

"  Your  name  is, — is," —  he  hesitated. 

"  Don't  ijou  know  me  ?  "  said  the  man. 

"  I, — I, — why, — I, — let  me  see." 

Herman  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand, 
and  steadily  perused  the  face  of  the 
STRANGER,  as  though,  in  the  eflort,  to  recog- 
nize him. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  a  muscular  frame, 
clad  in  a  single-breasted  blue  coat,  which 
was  buttoned  over  a  broad  chest  He  was 
of  the  medium  height.    His  forehead  was 


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107 


broad ;  his  eyes  clear  gray ;  his  lips  wide 
and  firm  ;  his  nose  inclining  to  the  aquline  ; 
his  chin  round  and  solid.  The  general  ex- 
pression of  his  features  was  that  of  straight- 
forwardness and  energy  of  character.  There 
was  the  freshness  and  the  warmth  of  youth 
upon  his  face,  and  his  forehead  was  stamped 
with  the  ideality  of  genius  As  he  wore 
his  brown  hair  in  short,  thick  curls,  it 
marked  the  outline  of  his  head,  and  threw 
his  forehead  distinctly  into  view. 

"You  are, — you  are, — where  did  I  see 
you  ?  "  hesitated  Herman. 

"  I  am  Arthur  Dermoyne,"  was  the  reply, 
in  an  even,  but  emphatic  voice. 

Then  there  was  an  embarrassing  pause. 

"  Where  have  I  met  you  ?  "  said  Herman, 
fls  if  in  the  painful  effort  to  recollect. 

"At  the  house  of  Mr.  Burney,  in  the  city 
of  Philadelphia,"  was  the  answer. 

"Ah!  now  I  remember!"  ejaculated 
Herman  ;  "  Poor,  poor  Mr.  Burney  !  You 
have  heard  of  the  sad  accident  which  took 
place  last  night,  ah — ah — ?" 

Herman  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and 
seemed  profoundly  affected. 

"I  saw  his  mangled  body  at  the  house 
half  way  between  New  York  and  Philadel- 
phia, only  a  few  hours  ago,"  the  young 
man's  voice  was  cold  and  stern,  "  and  now 
I  am  in  New  York,  endeavoring  to  find  the 
scoundrel  who  abducted  his  only  daughter." 

Herman  looked  at  cupid  in  the  ceiling 
and  pretended  to  brush  a  hair  from  his 
nose  — 

"  Ah,  I  remember,  poor  Mr.  Burney  told 
me  last  night,  that  his  child  had  been  abduc- 
ted. Yes, — "  Herman  looked  at  the  hair,  and 
held  it  between  his  eyes  and  the  light,  "  he 
told  me  about  it  just  before  the  accident  oc- 
curred. Poor  girl !  Poor  girl !  Oh,  by-the- 
bye,"  turning  suddenly  in  his  arm-chair,  but 
•without  looking  into  the  face  of  Dermoyne, 
"you  take  an  interest  in  the  Burney  family. 
Are  you  a  relative  ?  " 

"I  have  visited  the  house  of  Mr.  Burney, 
from  time  to  time,  and  have  seen  Alice,  his 
only  daughter.  You  may  think  me  roman- 
tic, but  to  see  that  girl,  so  pure,  so  innocent, 
BO  beautiful,  was  to  love  her.  I  will  con- 
fess that  had  it  not  been  for  a  disparity 
of  fortune,  and  a  difference  in  regard  to  re- 
ligious views,  between  her  father  and  myself, 


I  would  have  been  most  happy  to  have 
made  her  my  wife." 

The  tone  of  the  young  man  was  some- 
what agitated  ;  he  was  endeavoring  to  sup- 
press his  emotions. 

"  Courage  !  He  does  not  hioio,^'  muttered 
Herman  to  himself,  and  then  assuming  a 
calm  look,  he  continued,  aloud  :  "  And  she 
would  have  made  you  a  noble  wife.  By-the- 
bye,  you  spoke  of  your  profession.  A  mer-^ 
chant,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"A  lawyer  ?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  A  medical  gentleman  ?  " 
"No,  sir." 
"  You  are  then  —  " 
"A  shoemaker." 

"A  WHAT,"  ejaculated  Herman,  jumping 
from  his  chair. 

"A  shoemaker,"  repeated  Arthur  Der- 
moyne. "  I  gain  my  bread  by  the  work  of 
my  hands,  and  by  the  hardest  of  all  kinds 
of  work.  I  am  not  only  a  mechanic,  but  a 
shoemaker." 

Herman  could  not  repress  a  burst  of 
laughter. 

"  Excuse  me,  but,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  You  are  a 
shoemaker?"  And  you  visited  the  house 
of  the  wealthy  Burney,  and  aspired  to  his 
daughter's  hand  ? "  You  will  excuse  me, 
ha,  ha,  ha !  —  but  it  is  so  very  odd." 

Deraioyne's  forehead  grew  dark. 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  shoemaker.  I  earn  my 
bread  by  the  work  of  my  hands.  But  be- 
fore you  despise  me,  you  will  hear  why  I 
am  a  shoemaker.  As  an  orphaned  child, 
without  father  or  mother,  there  was  no  other 
career  before  me,  than  the  pauperism  of  the 
outcast  or  the  slavery  of  an  apprentice.  I 
chose  the  latter.  The  overseers  of  the  poor 
bound  me  out  to  a  trade.  I  grew  up  with- 
out hope,  education,  or  home.  In  the  day- 
time I  worked  at  an  occupation  which  is 
work  without  exercise,  and  which  continued 
ten  years,  at  ten  hours  a  day,  will  destroy 
the  constitution  of  the  strongest  man.  From 
this  hopeless  apprenticeship,  I  passed  into  the 
life  of  a  journeyman,  and  knew  what  it  was 
to  battle  with  the  world  for  myself.  How  I 
worked,  starved  and  worked,  matters  not, 
for  we  folks  are  born  for  that  kind  of  thing. 
But  as  I  sat  upon  my  work -bench,  listeuing 


108 


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UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


to  a  book  which  was  read  by  one  of  my  own 
brother  workmen,  I  became  aware  that  I  was 
not  only  poor,  but  ignorant ;  that  my  body 
was  not  only  enslaved,  but  also  my  soul.  — 
Therefore,  I  taught  myself  to  read ;  to 
write ;  and  for  three  years  I  have  devoted 
five  hours  of  every  night  to  study." 

"  And  are  still  a  shoemaker  ?  "  Herman's 
smooth  face  was  full  of  quiet  scorn  and 
laughter. 

"  I  am  still  a  shoemaker  —  a  workman  at 
the  bench  —  because  I  cannot,  in  conscience, 
enter  one  of  the  professions  called  learned. — 
I  cannot  separate  myself  from  that  nine- 
tenths  of  the  human  family,  who  seem  to 
have  been  only  born  to  work  and  die  —  die 
in  mind,  as  well  as  body  —  in  order  to  sup- 
ply the  idle  tenth  with  superfluities.  Oh! 
sir,  you,  who  are  so  learned  and  eloquent, 
could  you  but  read  the  thoughts  which  enter 
the  heart  of  the  poor  shoemaker,  who,  sitting 
at  his  work-bench,  in  a  cramped  position,  is 
forced  sometimes  to  reflect  upon  his  fate! — 
He  beholds  the  lawyer,  with  a  conscience 
distinct  from  that  given  to  him  by  God ;  a 
conscience  that  makes  him  believe  that  it  is 
right  to  grow  rich  by  the  tricks  and  frauds 
of  law.  He  beholds  the  doctor,  also  with 
the  conscience  of  his  class,  sending  human 
beings  to  death  by  system,  and  filling  grave- 
yards by  the  exact  rule  of  the  schools.  He 
beholds  the  minister,  too  often  also  with  but 
the  conscience  of  a  class,  preaching  the  thoughts 
of  those  who  do  not  work,  and  failing  to 
give  utterance  to  the  agonies  of  those  who 
do  work  —  who  do  all  the  labor,  and  suffer 
all  the  misery  in  the  world.  And  these  classes 
are  respected  ;  honored.  They  are  the  true 
noblemen !  Their  respectability  is  shared 
by  the  merchant,  who  grows  rich  by  distrib- 
uting the  products  of  labor.  But  as  for  the 
shoemaker  —  nay,  the  workman,  of  what- 
ever trade  —  whose  labor  produces  all  the 
physical  wealth  of  the  world  —  who  works  all 
life  long,  and  only  rests  when  his  head  is  in 
the  cold  grave,  —  what  of  him  ?  He  is  a 
serf,  a  slave,  a  Pariah.  On  the  stage  no  joke 
is  so  piquant  as  the  one  which  is  leveled  at 
the  '  tailor,'  or  the  '  cobbler ;'  in  literature, 
the  attempt  of  an  unknown  to  elevate  him- 
self, is  matter  for  a  brutal  laugh ;  and  even 
grave  men  like  you,  when  addressed  by  a 
man  who,  like  myself,  confesses  that  he  is  a — 


shoemaker!  you  burst  into  laughter,  aa 
though  the  master  you  profess  to  serve,  waa 
not  himself,  one  day,  a  workman  at  the  car- 
penter's bench." 

"  These  words  are  of  the  French  school.'* 
Herman  gave  the  word  "  French "  a  with- 
ering accent. 

"  Did  the  French  school  produce  the  New 
Testament?" 

Herman  did  not  answer,  but  fixed  his 
glance  upon  cupid  in  the  ceiling. 

"  But  you  are  educated  —  why  not  devote 
yourself  to  one  of  the  professions  ? "  and 
Herman  turned  his  eyes  from  cupid  in  the 
ceiling,  to  Venus  in  the  Shell. 

Dermoyne's  face  gleamed  with  a  calm  se- 
riousness, a  deep  enthusiasm,  which  imparted 
a  new  life  to  every  lineament. 

Because  I  do  not  wish  to  separate  myself 
from  the  largest  portion  of  humanity.  No, 
no,  —  had  I  the  intellect  of  a  Shakspeare,  or 
the  religion  of  a  St.  Paul,  I  would  not  wish  to 
separate  myself  from  the  greater  portion  of 
God's  family — those  who  are  born,  who  work, 
v/ho  die.  No,  no!  I  am  waiting — I  am 
waiting ! " 

"  Waiting  ?  "  echoed  Herman. 

"  May  be  the  day  will  come,  when,  gifted 
with  wealth,  I  can  enter  the  workshops  of 
Philadelphia,  and  say  to  the  workmen, 
*  Gome,  brothers.  Here  is  capital.  Let  us 
go  to  the  west.  Let  us  find  a  spot  of  God's 
earth  unpolluted  by  white  or  black  slavery. 
Let  us  build  a  community  where  every  man 
shall  work  with  his  hands,  and  where  every 
man  will  also  have  the  opportunity  to  culti- 
vate his  mind  —  to  work  with  his  brain.  — 
There  every  one  will  have  a  j)lace  to  work, 
and  every  one  will  receive  the  fruits  of  his 
work.  And  there,  —  oh,  my  God! — there 
will  we,  without  priest,  or  monopolist,  or 
slaveholder,  establish  in  the  midst  of  a  band 
of  brothers,  the  worship  of  that  Christ  who 
was  himself  a  workman,  even  as  he  is  now, 
the  workman's  God.' " 

Arthur  Dermoyne  had  started  from  his 
chair ;  his  hands  were  clasped  ;  his  gray  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears. 

"  French  ideas — French  ideas,"  cried  Her- 
man. VYou  have  been  reading  French 
books,  young  man  !  " 

Arthur  looked  at  the  clergyman,  and  said 
quietly  : 


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109 


"These  ideas  were  held  by  the  GeiTaan 
race  who  settled  in  Pennsylvania,  in  the 
time  of  William  Penn.  Driven  from  Ger- 
many by  the  hands  of  Protestant  priests, 
they  brought  with  them  to  the  New  World, 
the  '  French  ideas '  of  the  New  Testament." 

"  The  Germans  who  settled  Pennsylvania 
—  a  stupid  race,"  observed  Herman,  in  calm 
derision  ;  "  Look  at  some  of  their  descend- 
ants." 

"  The  Germans  of  the  present  day — or,  to 
speak  more  distinctly,  —  the  Pennsylvania 
Germans,  descendants  of  the  old  stock,  who 
came  over  about  the  time  of  Ponn,  are  a 
conquered  race !— " 

"A  conquered  race  ?"  echoed  Herman. 

"  Conquered  by  the  English  language," 
continued  Dermoyne.  "  As  a  mass,  t\iQY  are 
not  well  instructed  either  in  English  or  in 
German,  and  therefore  have  no  chance  to 
develop,  to  its  filllest  extent,  the  stamina 
of  their  race.  They  know  but  little  of  the 
real  history  of  their  ancestors,  who  first 
brought  to  Pennsylvania  the  great  truth,  that 
God  is  not  a  God  of  hatred,  pleased  with 
blood,  but  a  God  of  love,  whose  great  law 
is  the  PROGRESS  of  all  his  children, — that  is, 
the  entire  family  of  man,  both  here  and 
HEREAFTER.  And  the  Pennsylvanian  Ger- 
mans are  the  scoff  and  sneer  of  Yankee 
swindler  and  southern  braggart ;  but  the  day 
will  come,  when  the  descendants  of  that 
race  will  rise  to  their  destiny,  and  even  as 
the  farms  of  Pennsylvania  now  show  their 
jphysical  progress,  so  will  the  entire  Ameri- 
can continent  bear  witness  to  their  intellectual 
power.  They  are  of  the  race  of  Luther,  of 
Goethe,  and  of  Schiller, — hard  to  kill, — the 
men  who  can  work,  and  the  men  whose 
work  will  make  a  people  strong,  a  nation 
great  and  noble." 

"  You  are  of  this  race  ?"  asked  Herman, 
pulling  his  cloak  gently  with  his  delicate 
hand. 

"  My  father,  (I  am  told,  for  he  died  when 
I  was  a  child,)  was  a  wealthy  farmer,  whose 
wealth  was  swallowed  up  by  an  unjust  law- 
suit and  a  fraudulent  bank.  My  grandfather 
was  a  wheelwright ;  my  great-grandfather  a 
cobbler;  my  great-great-grandfather  a  car- 
penter ;  and  his  father,  was  a  tiller  of  the 
field.  So  you  see,  I  am  nobly  descended," 
ai'.d  a  smile  crossed  the  lips  of  Dermoyne. 


"Not  a  single  idler  or  vagabond  in  our 
family, — all  workers,  like  their  Savior, — all 
men  who  eat  the  bread  of  honest  labor. 
Ah !  I  forgot  ;'!*he  passed  his  hand  over  his 
forehead — "  there  was  a  count  in  our  family. 
This,  I  confess,  is  a  blot  upon  us  ;  but  when 
you  remember  that  ho  forsook  his  countship 
in  Germany,  to  become  a  tiller  of  the  fields 
in  Pennsylvania — about  the  year  1680 — you 
will  look  over  the  fault  of  his  title." 

Herman  burst  into  a  fit  of  pleasant 
laughter. 

"You  have  odd  ideas  of  nobility!"  he 
ejaculated. 

"  Odd  as  the  New  Testament,"  said  Der- 
moyne ;  and  as  old.  By-the-bye,  this  count 
in  our  family,  was  related  to  the  Van  Huy- 
den  family.  (You,  also,  are  one  of  the 
seven  ?  —  Yes,  your  name  is  among  the 
others.)  Ah  !  should  the  25th  of  December 
give  into  my  hands  but  a  few  thousand 
dollars,  I  will  try  and  show  the  world  how 
workmen,  united  for  the  common  good,  can 
live  and  work  together." 

"  A  few  thousands !"  laughed  Herman, 
displaying  himself  at  full  length  on  ttie 
capacious  chair ;  "  why,  in  case  the  Seven 
receive  the  estate  at  all,  they  will  divide 
among  them  some  twenty,  perhaps,  forty 
millions  of  dollars  !" 

"  Forty  millions  of  dollars  !"  Dermoyne 
was  thunderstruck.  He  folded  his  arms, 
and  gazed  upon  vacancy  with  fixed  eyes. 
'*  My  God  !  what  might  not  be  done  with 
forty  millions  !" — he  paused  and  stretc]ied 
forth  his  hand,  as  though  a  vision  of  the 
future  dawned  upon  him. 

"Did  Mr.  Burney — poor  friend!  —  know 
that  you  were  a — shoemaker  ?"  Once  more 
Herman  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and 
regarded  the  young  man  with  a  pleasant 
smile. 

"He  did  not,"  answered  Dermoyne.  "I 
became  acquainted  with  him, — it  matters  not 
how, — and  visited  his  house,  where,  more 
than  once,  I  have  conversed  with  his 
daughter  Alice.  No,  Mr.  Burney  did  me 
wrong ;  for  while  I  was  a  shoemaker,  he 
persisted,  (in  ignorance  of  my  character,)  in 
thinking  me — a  gentleman!  A  gentleman — 
an  idle  vagabond,  whose  gentility  is  sup- 
ported by  the  labor  of  honest  men. — 
Faugh !" 


110 


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"  Well,  I  must  confess,"  Herman  said  with 
a  wave  of  the  hand  and  a  patronizing  tone, 
"  that  from  your  manner,  gestures,  accent,  et 
cetera,  I  have  always  taken  you  for  an 
educated  gentleman.  But  your  principles 
are  decidedly  migenteel,  —  allow  me  the 
remark." 

Herman  began  to  feel  much  more  at  ease. 

"  He  does  not  dream  I  have  any  share  in 
the  abduction  of  Alice  !"  This  thought  was 
comfort  and  repose  to  his  mind. 

But  Arthur  Dermoyne  changed  the  tone 
of  this  pleasant  dream  by  a  single  question  : 

"Do  you, — "  he  fixed  his  eyes  sternly 
upon  the  young  minister :  "  Do  you  know 
anything  of  the  retreat  of  Alice  Burney  ?" 

"Do  I  know  anything  of  the  retreat — of — 
Alice  —  Burney !"  he  echoed:  "What  a 
question  to  ask  a  man  of  my  cloth  !" 

Dermoyne  placed  his  hand  within  the 
breast  of  his  coat,  and  drew  forth  ten  gold 
pieces,  which  he  held  in  the  light,  in  the 
palm  of  his  hand. 

"Every  coin  gained  by  days  and  nights  of 
work — hard  work,"  he  said.  "  It  has  taken 
me  three  years  to  save  that  sum.  When  I 
thought  of  Alice  as  a  wife,  this  little  horde, 
(such  was  my  fancy,)  might  enable  me  to 
furnish  a  good  home.  Do  you  understand 
me,  sir  ?  You  who  receive  five  thousand 
dollars  per  year  for  preaching  the  gospel  of 
your  church,  can  you  comprehend  how 
precious  is  this  fortune  of  one  hundred  dol- 
lars, to  a  poor  workman,  who  earns  his  bread 
by  sitting  in  a  cramped  position,  fourteen 
hours  a  day,  making  shoes  ?" 

"Well,  what  have  I  to  do  with  this 
money  ?" 

"  You  comprehend  that  these  ten  gold 
pieces  are  as  much  to  me,  as  a  ten  hundred 
would  be  to  you  ?  These  gold  pieces  will 
buy  books  which  I  earnestly  desire  ;  they 
will  help  me  to  relieve  a  brother  workman 
who  happens  to  be  poorer  than  myself ;  they 
will  help  me  to  go  to  the  far  west,  where 
there  is  land  and  home  for  all.  Well,  this 
fortune,  I  have  dedicated  to  one  purpose: 
To  support  me,  here  in  New  York,  on  bread 
and  water,  until  I  can  discover  the  hiding- 
place  of  Alice  Barney,  and  meet  her  seducer 
face  to  face.  How  long  do  you  think  my 
gold  will  furnish  me  with  bread,  while  I 
devote  day  and  night  to  this  purpose  ?" 


The  iron  resolution  of  the  young  man's 
face,  made  the  clergyman  feel  afraid. 

"  You  will  remark,"  he  exclaimed,  stretch-  • 
ing  himself  in  his  chair,  and  contemplating 
the  whiteness  of  his  nails,  "  that  a  witness 
of  our  conversation  might  infer,  from  the 
tenor  of  your  discourse,  that  you  have  an 
idea — an  idea — "  he  hesitated,  "  that  I  have 
something  to  do  with  the  abduction  of  this 
young  lady.  Doubtless  you  do  not  mean  to 
convey  this  impression,  and  therefore  I  will 
thank  you  to  correct  the  tone  of  your 
remarks." 

Herman  was  quite  lordly. 

"  Then  you  know  nothing  A  the  retreat 
of  Alice  Burney  ?" 

"  The  question  is  an  insult — " 

"  Nothing  of  her  seducer  ?" 

"  I  repeat  it ;  the  question  is  an  insult," 
and  Herman  started  up  in  his  chair,  with 
flashing  eyes  and  corrugated  brow. 

"  Will  you  swear  that  you  are  ignorant  of 
her  retreat,  and  of  the  name  of  her  seducer?" 
coolly  continued  Dermoyne. 

"  Men  of  my  cloth  do  not  swear,"  as 
coolly  returned  Herman. 

"Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  upon 
your  ignorance,"  replied  Dermoyne,  "for — 
for ; — will  you  have  the  goodness  to  observe 
me  for  a  moment  ?" 

While  Herman  watched  him  with  a  won- 
dering eye,  the  young  man  replaced  the  gold 
pieces  in  his  pocket,  and  rising  from  his 
chair,  surveyed  the  room  with  an  attentive 
gaze.  His  eye  rested  at  length  upon  an  iron 
candlestick,  which  stood  upon  a  shelf  of  the 
library ;  it  was  evidently  out  of  place  in 
that  luxurious  room ;  and  had  been  left 
there  through  the  forgetfulness  of  the  servant 
who  took  care  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bulgin's 
study.  Dermoyne  took  this  candlestick  from 
the  shelf,  and  then  returned  to  the  light. 

"  Do  you  see  this  ?  It  is  about  six  inches 
long  and  one  inch  in  diameter.  Would  it 
not  take  a  strong  man  to  break  that  in  twain 
with  both  hands  ?" 

Herman  took  the  candlestick ;  examined 
it  attentively  :  "  It  would  take  a  Sampson," 
he  said. 

"Now  look  at  my  hand."  Dermoyne 
extended  a  hand  which,  hardened  by  labor 
in  the  palm,  was  not  so  large  as  it  was 
muscular  and  bony. 


FllOM  NIGPITFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


Ill 


"What  have  I  to  do  with  your  hand?" 
exclaimed  Herman,  in  evident  disgust. 

"  Watch  me,"  said  Dermoyne  ;  and,  resting 
the  candlestick  on  his  right  hand,  he  closed 
his  fingers,  and  pressed  his  thumb  against  it. 
After  an  instant  he  opened  his  hand  again. 
The  iron  candlestick  was  bent  nearly  double. 
Dermoyne  had  accomplished  this  feat  with- 
out the  appearance  of  exertion. 

"Why,  you  are  a  very  Hercules  !"  ejacu- 
lated Herman, — "  and  yet,  you  are  not  above 
the  medium  height.  You  do  not  look  like 
a  strong  man." 

"  God  has  invested  me  with  almost  super- 
human strength,"  replied  Dermoyne,  as  he 
stood  erect  before  the  minister,  resting  one 
hand  upon  the  table ;  "  had  it  not  been  for 
that,  hard  work  would  have  killed  me  long 
ago.  I  can  lift  with  one  hand,  a  weight, 
"which  would  task  the  strength  of  almost  any 
two  men  but  to  budge  ;  I  can  strike  a  blow, 
which,  properly  planted,  would  fell  an  ox  ; 
I  can — "  \ 

"  You  needn't  dilate,"  interrupted  Herman, 
"  the  study  of  the  Kev.  Dr.  Bulgin  is  not  ex- 
actly the  place  for  gymnastic  experiments — " 

"  Well,  you  '11  see  my  drift  directly," 
calmly  continued  Dermoyne — "  I  have  never 
dared  to  use  this  strength,  save  in  the  way 
of  work  or  occasional  exercise.  I  regard  it 
as  a  kind  of  trust,  given  to  me  by  Providence 
for  a  good  purpose." 

"  What  purpose,  pray  ?"  said  Herman, 
opening  his  eyes. 

"  To  punish  those  criminals  whom  the  law 
does  not  punish ;  to  protect  those  victims  it 
does  not  protect,"  answered  Dermoyne,  stea- 
dily. "  Now,  for  instance,  were  I  to  encoun- 
ter the  seducer  of  Alice  Burney, — were  I  to 
stand  face  to  face  him,  as  I  do  with 

you, — were  I  to  place  my  thumb  upon  his 
right  temple  and  my  fingers  upon  his  left 
temple, — thus — " 

"  You, — you, — "  gasped  the  minister,  who 
suddenly  felt  the  hand  of  Arthur  Dermoyne 
upon  his  forehead  ;  the  thumb  pressed  gently 
upon  the  right  temple  and  the  fingers  upon 
his  left — *'  you, — would, — what  ?" 

"  I  would,  quietly,  without  a  word,  crush 
his  skull  as  you  might  crush  an  egg-shell," 
slowly  answered  Dermoyne. 

He  took  his  hand  away.  The  face  of 
Herman  was  white  as  a  sheet.    He  shook  in 


his  velvet  chair.  For  a  moment  he  could 
not  speak. 

"I,  therefore,  congratulate  you,  that  you 
know  nothing  of  the  matter,"  calmly  conti- 
nued Dermoyne,  not  seeming  to  notice  the 
fright  of  the  minister  ;  "  for,  with  a  villain 
like  this  unknown  seducer  before  me,  I  would 
lose  all  control  over  myself,  and  (ere  I  was 
aware  of  it)  I  would  have  wiped  him  out  of 
existence.  This  would  be  murder,  you  are 
about  to  remark  !  So  it  would.  But,  is  not 
this  seducer  a  murderer  in  a  three  fold  sense? 
First,  he  has  murdered  the  chastity  of  this 
poor  girl ;  and  second,  in  the  attempt  to  get 
rid  of  the  proof  of  his  guilt,  he  may  (who 
knows  ?)  murder  her  body  and  the  body^of 
her  unborn  child." 

The  room  was  still  as  the  grave,  as  Der- 
moyne concluded  the  last  sentence. 

Barnhurst  sank  back  in  the  chair,  helpless 
as  a  child.  For  a  moment  his  self-possession 
deserted  him.  His  guilt  was  stamped  upon 
his  face. 

"Here  you  can  count  three  murders," 
continued  Dermoyne,  not  seeming  to  notice 
the  dismay  of  the  minister, — "  the  murder 
of  a  woman's  purity,  —  the  murder  of  her 
body  —  the  murder  of  her  babe.  Now,  I 
don't  pretend  to  say,  that  it  would  be  righi? 
for  me  to  kill  the  three  fold  murderer,  but  I 
do  say,  that,  were  I  to  meet  him,  and  Jcnow 
his  guilt,  that  my  blood  would  boil,  —  my 
eyes  would  grow  dim, — •my  hand  would  be 
extended,  and  in  an  instant,  would  hold  his 
mangled  skull,  between  the  thumb  and  fin- 
gers." 

Herman's  arms  dropped  helplessly  by  his 
side.  He  was  extended  in  the  capacious 
chair,  a  vivid  picture  of  helpless  fright. 

Dermoyne,  whose  broad  chest  and  bold 
features,  caught  on  one  side  the  glow  of  the 
light,  as  he  stood  erect  by  the  table,  gazed 
upon  the  minister  with  a  calm  look,  and 
continued — 

"  So,  you  see,  I  congratulate  you,  that  you 
know  nothing  of  the  matter — " 

"  Oh,  I  am  shocked,  shocked,"  and  Her- 
man made  out  to  cover  his  face  with  his 
hands,  "  I  am  shocked,  at  the  vivid,  viv-id," 
he  stammered, — "  vivid  picture  which  you 
have  drawn  of  the  crimes  of  this  seducer." 

Dermoyne  sank  quietly  into  the  chair  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  and  shaded 


112 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


his  eyes  with  his  right  hand.  He  also  was 
HiirHcing. 

For  a  long  pause,  there  was  profound  still- 
ness. The  lamp  on  the  table  shed  its  luxu- 
rious light  over  the  vast  room,  peopled  as  it 
was,  with  images  of  wealth,  ease  and  volup- 
tuousness, and  upon  the  figures  of  these  men, 
seated  opposite  to  each  other,  and  each  with 
his  eyes  shaded  by  his  hand. 

At  length,  Herman  recovering  a  portion 
of  his  self-possession,  exclaimed  without 
raising  his  hands  from  his  face  : 

"I  trust  you  will  end  this  interview  at 
once.  You  have  given  my  nerves  a  severe 
shock.  To-morrow,  —  to-morrow,  —  I  will 
iaJtt  to  you  about  the  Van  Huyden  estate, 
about  which,  I  presume,  you  asked  this  in- 
terview." 

Dermoyne  raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead, 
—-somewhat  after  the  manner  of  Herman, — 
and  surveyed  the  clergyman  with  a  keen, 
searching  gaze.  Gradually  a  smile,  so  faint 
as  to  be  scarcely  perceptible,  stole  over  his 
features. 

Herman  felt  the  force  of  that  gaze  and  his 
smooth  complexion  turned  from  deathly 
white  to  scarlet,  and  from  scarlet  to  deathly 
white  again. 

"  What  next  ?"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
"does  he  know?  Had  I  better  call  for  assist- 
ance ?" 

Dermoyne,  quietly  left  his  seat,  and  ad- 
vancing until  he  confronted  Herman,  placed 
a  small  piece  of  paper  on  the  table,  and  held 
it  firml}^  under  his  thumb,  so  that  the  words 
written  upon  it,  were  legible  in  the  lamp- 
light. 

"  Read  that,"  he  said,  and  his  flashing  eye 
was  fixed  on  Barnhurst's  face. 

Half  Avondering,  half  stupefied,  Barnhurst 
bent  forward  and  read  : — 

Dec.  24,  1844. 
Madam  : — Yomv  patient  will  come  to-night. 

Herman  Barnhurst. 

As  he  read,  Herman  looked  like  a  man 
who  has  received  his  death-warrant.  The 
very  effort,  —  and  it  was  a  mortal  one,  — 
which  he  made  to  control  himself,  only  gave 
a  stronger  agitation  to  his  quivering  linea- 
ments. 

"  Can  you  tell  where  I  found  this  ?"  whis- 
pered Dermoyne.    "  Near  the  mangled  body 


of  the  father  of  Alice, — at  sunset,  but  a  few 
hours  ago,  and  at  the  house  half-way  between 
New  York  and  Philadelphia, — there  among 
the  ashes,  and  half  consumed  by  fire,  I  dis- 
covered this  precious  document.  Did  you 
drop  this  paper  from  your  pocket,  my  friend, 
when  you  sought  shelter  in  the  house,  after 
the  accident  on  the  railroad,  last  night  ?" 

Herman  had  not  the  power  to  reply.  His 
eyes  were  riveted  by  the  half-burned  frag- 
ment. 

"  What  has  the  Rev.  Herman  Barnhurst, 
the  clergyman,  to  do  with  Madam  Resimer, 
the  murderess  of  unhorn  children  f"  continued 
Dermoyne  ;  "  and  the  patient, — who  is  the 
patient  f  Is  it  Alice  ?  This  letter  is  dated 
the  24th,  and  to-morrow  night,  Alice,  will 
cross  the  threshold  of  that  hell,  where  the 
Madam  rules,  as  the  presiding  Devil !" 

A  gleam  of  hope  shot  across  Herman's 
soul.  "  He  does  not  know,  that  Alice  is  al- 
ready in  the  care  of  Madam  Resimer.  Cour- 
age,— courage  !" 

"  Have  you  no  ansAver  ?"  Dermoyne's 
eye  gleamed  with  deadly  light ;  still  holding 
the  paper,  he  advanced  a  step  nearer  to  the 
clergyman. 

"Yes,  I  have  an  answer!"  exclaimed 
Herman,  sinking  back  in  the  chair  :  "  that 
letter  is  a  forgery." 

Dermoyne  was  astonished. 

"  You  never  wrote  it  ?" 
"  Never,  —  never  !"  Herman  raised  his 
hands  to  Heaven, — "  it  is  the  work  of  some 
mortal  enemy.  Beside,  were  I  guilty,  is  it 
reasonable  to  suppose,  that  I,  a  clergyman, 
would  sign  my  own  name  to  a  letter  address- 
ed to  Madam  Resimer  ?" 

Dermoyne  was  puzzled  ;  he  glanced  from 
the  letter  to  Barnhurst's  face,  and  a  look  of 
do-ubt  clouded  his  features. 

"  A  forgery  ?"  he  asked. 

"An  infamous  forgery  !"  cried  Barnhurst^ 
resuming  his  dignity.  "  Now,  that  you  have 
wrung  my  very  soul,  by  an  accusation  so 
utterly  infamous,  so  thoroughly  improbable, 
let  me  hope  that  you  will — "  he  pointed  to 
the  door. 

Dermoyne  resumed  his  cap  and  cloak, 
first,  carefully  replacing  the  letter  in  his  vest 
pocket. 

"  By  to-morrow,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  which 
nmg  low  and  distinct  through  the  apartment, 


FKOM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


113 


"by  to-morrow,  I  will  know  the  truth  of 
this  matter ;  and  if  I  discover  that  this  is, 
indeed,  your  letter, — if  you  have,  indeed, 
dishonored  poor  Alice,  and  consigned  her- 
self and  unborn  babe,  to  the  infernal  mercies 
of  Madam  Resimer,  why  then," —  he  moved 
toward  the  door,  "then  there  will  be  one 
man  the  less,  on  the  25th  of  December." 

He  opened  the  door,  and  was  gone  ere 
his  words  had  ceased  to  echo  on  the  air. 

His  parting  words  rung  in  the  very  soul 
of  tbe  clergymen,  as  his  footsteps  died  away 
(Ml  the  stairs. 

"What  an  abyss  have  I  escaped  !"  ejacu- 
lated Herman,  "exposure,  disgrace  and 
death  1 "  He  pressed  his  scented  kerchief 
over  his  foreliead,  and  wiped  away  the  cold 
sweat  which  moistened  it.  "  Fool !  he  little 
knows  that  Alice  is  already  there.  The 
Madam  is  a  shrewd  woman.  Her  rooms  are 
dark,  ber  doors  secured  by  double  bolts  ;  her 
secrets  are  given  to  the  keeping  of  the 
grave.  This  miserable  idiot,  this  cobbler, 
cannot  possibly  gain  admittance  into  her 
mansion  ?  No,  no,  this  thought  is  idle. 
And  Alice,  poor  child,  why  can't  I  marry 
her  ?  Her  father's  death  will  leave  her  in 
possession  of  a  handsome  fortune,  —  why 
can't  I  marry  her  ?  " 

Too  well  he  knew  the  only  answer  to  this 
q^uestion. 

"  We  are  all  but  mortal ;  she  may  die 
and  an  expression  of  remarkable  compla- 
cency came   over  his   face.    Joining  his 
thumbs  and  fingers  in  front  of  his  breast,  he 
reflected  deeply.    "But  if  she  survives?" 

His  brow  became  clouded,  his  lips  com- 
pressed ;  all  the  vidture  of  his  soul  was 
written  on  his  vulture-like  countenance. 

"  If  she  survives  !  " 

While  the  light  disclosed  his  slender  fig- 
ure, centered  in  the  scarlet  cushions  of  the 
arm-chair,  and  fell  upon  his  countenance, 
revealing  the  purpose  which  was  written 
there,  Herman  still  muttered  between  his 
set  teeth,  the  question,  "  If  she  survives  ?  " 
To  him,  it  was  a  question  of  life  and  death. 

But  his  meditations  were  interrupted  by  a 
burst  of  boisterous  laughter. 

"  Why  Barnhurst !  you  are  grave  as  an 
owl.    What's  the  matter,  my  dear  ?  " 

Herman  looked  up  with  a  start,  and  a 
half-muttered  ejaculation.     The  Rev.  Dr. 


Bulgin  stood  before  him,  his  cloak  on  his 
arm,  and  a  cap  in  his  hand. 

"I  thought  you  was  out  of  town  ?"  cried 
Herman. 

"  So  I  was ;  a  convention  of  divines, 
speeches,  resolutions,  and  so  forth,  you 
know.  But  now  I'm  in  town,  and, — such 
an  advcuture,  my  dear  boy  !  I  must  tell 
you  of  it." 

Before  Bulgin  tells  his  adventure,  we 
must  look  at  him.  A  man  of  thirty-five 
years,  with  broad  shoulders,  heavy  chest 
and  unwieldy  limbs  ;  ^  portly  man,  some 
would  call  him,  dressed  in  black,  of  course, 
and  with  a  white  cravat  about  his  neck, 
which  was  short  and  fat.  Draggled  masses 
of  brownish  hair  stray,  in  uneven  ends, 
about  Bulgin's  face  and  ears ;  that  face  is 
round  and  shiny, — its  hue,  a  greasy  florid, — 
its  brow,  broad  and  low;  its  eyes  large, 
moist  and  oyster-like.  In  a  M^ord,  the  upper 
part  of  Bulgin's  head  indicates  the  man  of 
intellect ;  the  face,  the  eyes,  mouth,  nose 
and  all,  tell  the  story  of  a  nature  thor- 
oughly animal,  —  bestial,  would  be  a  truer 
word. 

That  head  and  face  were  but  too  true  in 
their  indications. 

Bulgin  was,  in  intellect,  something  of  a  god; 
in  real  life;  in  the  gratiflcation  of  appetite;  in 
habits,  strengthened  by  the  growth  of  years, 
he  was  a  beast.  It  may  seem  a  harsh  word, 
but  it  is  the  only  one  that  suits  Bulgin's 
case.  He  was  a  beast.  Not  a  quiet  ox, 
cropping  clover  at  his  ease,  nor  yet  a  lordly 
bull,  madly  tossing  his  horns  in  the  center 
of  a  grassy  field, — of  course,  we  mean  noth- 
ing of  the  kind, — but  a  beast  on  two  legs, 
gifted  with  a  strong  intellect  and  an  immor- 
tal soul,  and  devoting  intellect  and  soul  to 
the  full  gratification  of  his  beastly  nature. 
He  was,  withal,  a  good-humored  beast.  He 
enjoyed  a  joke.  His  laugh  was  jovial ;  re- 
minding you  of  goblets  of  wine  and  sup- 
pers of  terrapin.  His  manner  was  ofi"-hand, 
free  and  easy — out  of  the  pulpit,  of  course ; 
in  the  pulpit,  no  one  so  demure,  so  zealous 
and  pathetic  as  the  Rev,  Dr.  Bulgin. 

He  regarded  his  ministerial  oflSce  as  a 
j)iece  of  convenient  clock-work,  invented 
some  years  ago,  for  the  purpose  of  supply- 
ing the  masses  with  something  to  believe  ;  and 
men  like  himself,  with  a  good  salary,  a  fine 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


house,  plently  to  eat  and  drink,  fair  social 
position,  and  free  opportunity  for  the  gratifi- 
cation of  every  appetite. 

His  creed  was  a  part  of  this  clock-work. 
It  was  his  living.  Therefore,  everything 
that  he  wrote  or  uttered,  in  regard  to  relig- 
ion, was  true  to  his  creed  ;  true,  eloquent, 
and  breathing  the  loftiest  enthusiasm.  To 
doubt  his  creed,  was  to  doubt  his  living. 
Therefore,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bulgin  did  not 
doubt  his  creed,  but  took  it  as  he  found  it, 
and  advocated  it  with  all  the  energy  of  his 
intellectual  nature. 

As  to  any  possible  appreciation  of  the 
Bible,  or  of  that  Savior  who,  emerging  from 
the  shop  of  a  carpenter,  came  to  speak 
•words  of  hope  to  all  mankind,  and,  in 
especial,  to  that  portion  who  bear  all  the 
slavery,  and  do  all  the  work  of  the  world, 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Bulgin  never  troubled  himself 
with  thoughts  like  these  ;  he  was  above  and 
beyond  them;  the  Bible  and  the  Savior 
were,  in  his  estimation,  convenient  parts  of 
that  convenient  clock-work  which  afforded 
him  the  pleasant  sum  of  five  thousand  dol- 
lars per  year. 

To  look  at  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bulgin ;  to  see 
him  stand  there,  with  his  sensual  form  and 
swinish  face,  you  would  not  think  that  he 
was  the  author  of  one  of  the  most  spiritual 
works  in  the  world,  entitled  "  Our  Commu- 
nion with  the  Spirit." 

To  know  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bulgin, — to  know 
him  when,  his  stage  drapery  laid  aside,  he 
appeared  the  thing  he  was, — you  could,  by 
no  means,  imagine  that  he  was  the  author 
of  an  excellent  work  on  "  Private  Prayer." 

And  yet  he  was  no  hypocrite ;  not,  at 
least,  in  the  common  sense  of  the  word. 
He  was  an  intellectual  animal  whose  utmost 
hopes  were  bounded  by  the  horizon  of  this 
world.  Beyond  this  world  there  was  noth- 
ing. He  was  an  Atheist.  Not  an  Atheist 
publishing  a  paper  advocating  Atheistic  prin- 
ciples, but  an  Atheist  in  the  pulpit,  profess^ 
ing  to  preach  the  Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ. 
You  ma}'  shudder  at  the  thought,  but  the 
Reverend  Doctor  Bulgin  was  such  a  man. 

And  just  such  men,  in  churches  of  all 
kinds, — Protestants  and  Catholics,  Orthodox 
and  Heterodox, — have  these  eighteen  hun- 
dred years  been  preaching  a  clock-work 
Gospel,  leaving  unsaid,  uncared  for,  the  true 


Word  of  the  Master — a  Word  which  says,  in 
one  breath,  temporal  and  spiritual  prayers — a 
Word  which  enjoins  the  establishment  of 
the  kingdom  of  God,  on  earth,  in  the  physi- 
cal and  intellectual  welfare  of  the  greatest 
portion  of  mankind. 

Too  well  these  Atheists  know  that  were 
that  Word  once  boldly  uttered,  their  high 
pulpits  and  magnificent  livings  would  van- 
ish like  cobwebs  before  the  sweeper's  broom. 

How  much  evil  have  such  Atheists  ac- 
complished in  the  course  of  eighteen  hun- 
dred years  ? 

It  will  do  no  harm  to  think  upon  thii 
subject,  just  a  little. 

"  Herman,  my  boy,  I  must  tell  you  of  my 
last  adventure,"  said  Bulgin,  dropping  into 
the  seat  which  Dermoyne  had  lately  occu- 
pied ;  "  it  will  make  your  mouth  water ! " 
He  smacked  his  lips  and  clapped  his  hands ; 
the  lips  were  oily,  and  the  hands  fat  and 
dumpy.  "  But,  first,  you  must  tell  me 
what 's  the  matter  with,  you  ?  Anything 
wrong  in  your  church  ?  " 

"That  doesn't  trouble  me,"  responded 
Herman.  "  True,  there  is  the  trial  of  the 
Bishop,  and  the  wrangling  of  these  Low 
Church  fellows,  about  our  gowns  and  altars  ? 
our  views  of  the  sacrament,  and  our  high 
notions  of  the  priesthood.  These  Low 
Church  people  are  actually  MetJiodists.  They 
would  rob  the  church  of  all  dignity,  and 
turn  the  priest  of  the  altar  into  the  ranter  of 
the  conventicle,  —  " 

"  We  are  not  troubled  with  bishops,  nor 
apostolic  successions,"  interrupted  Bulgin : 
"  High  and  Low  Church  don't  trouble  us.  — 
Our  deacons  want  a  minister ;  they  call  him 
and  pay  him.  Now,  if  our  church  admitted 
of  a  bishop,  I  think  that  — "  he  put  his 
thumbs  in  the  arm-holes  of  his  vest,  and 
surveyed  his  heavy  limbs  with  great  com- 
placency, "  that  your  humble  servant  would 
make  a  — " 

"  Bishop  ?  "  cried  Herman,  with  a  laugh. 
"Ay,  and  a  capital  bishop,  too,  if  all  be 
true  that  these  Low  Church  fellows  say  of 
the  Bishop  of  your  church.    I  am  a  man 
of  feeling,  eh,  my  boy  ?" 

This  was  a  home  thrust.  Notwithstand- 
ing his  intimacy  with  Bulgin,  Herman  did 
not  regard  him  as  a  real  priest  of  the  church, 
but  only  as  the  called  teacher  of  a  congrega- 


J 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


115 


tion.  Therefore,  he  felt  the  allusion  to  his 
bishop  the  more  heavily. 

"  You  were  speaking  of  an  adventure  ?  " 
suggested  Herman,  anxious  to  change  the 
subject :  "  What  about  it  ?  " 

Bulgin  flung  back  his  head,  and  burst 
into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"  I'm  laughing  at  my  adventure,  not  at 
you,  ray  dear  Herman.  Just  imagine  my 
case.  I  have  a  patient  on  my  hands,  who  is 
rich,  crippled  with  a  dozen  diseases,  and 
troubled  in  his  mind  on  some  doctrinal  point. 
In  the  morning  I  visit  the  old  gentleman, 
and  after  hearing  afresh  the  list  of  his  dis- 
eases, I  soothe  him  on  the  doctrinal  point.  — 
Soothe  him,  and  quote  the  Fathers,  and  fire 
him  up  with  a  word  or  two  about  the  Pope. 
And  in  the  afternoon —  "  he  closed  one  eye, 
and  looked  at  Herman  in  such  a  manner, 
that  the  latter  could  not  avoid  a  burst  of 
laughter,  "in  the  afternoon,  while  the  old  man 
is  asleep,  I  visit  his  wife, — young  and  hand- 
some, and  such  a  love  of  a  woman  —  and 
soothe  her  mind  on  another  doctrinal  point. 
Sometimes  my  lessons  are  prolonged  until 
evening,  and  —  ha,  ha ! — I  have  my  hands 
full,  I  assure  you." 

"  You  called  there  to-night,  on  your  way 
home  ?  "  asked  Herman,  with  a  smile. 

"Just  to  see  if  the  old  gentleman  was 
better,  and,  —  but  wait  a  moment,"  he  rose 
from  his  chair,  and  hurried  into  the  shadows 
of  the  room,  turned  one  of  the  recesses,  be- 
tween the  western  windows.  There  he 
remained,  until  Herman  grew  impatient. 

"What  are  you  doing,"  he  exclaimed, 
and  as  he  spoke,  Bulgin  returned  toward 
the  light,  "  what  is  this  ! "  and  his  eyes 
opened  with  a  wondering  stare. 

"I'm  a  cardinal;  that  is  ^11.  The  dress 
of  Leo  the  Tenth,  before  he  became  Pope. 
Don't  you  think  I  looh  the  character  ?  " 

He  was  attired  in  a  robe  of  scarlet  velvet, 
which  covered  his  unwieldy  form  from  the 
neck  to  the  feet,  and  enveloped  his  arms  in 
its  voluminous  sleeves.  His  florid  face  ap- 
peared beneath  the  broad  rim  of  a  red  hat, 
and  upon  his  broad  chest  hung  a  golden  chain, 
to  which  was  appended  a  huge  golden  cross. 
The  costume  was  of  the  richest  texture,  and 
gave  something  of  a  lordly  appearance  to  the 
t)ulky  iorm  of  the  reverend  doctor. 

"I'm  a  cardinal,"  said  Bulgin  with  a 


wink  ;  "  There  is  a  nice  party  of  us,  who 
meet  to-night,  between  twelve  and  one,  to 
confer  upon  (jrave  matters.  Eveiy  one  wears 
a  mask  and  costume.  Will  you  go  with  me  ? 
There  is  the  robe  of  a  Jesuit  yonder,  which 
will  fit  you  to  a  hair." 

Herman's  eyes  flashed,  and  he  started 
from  his  chair, 

"  The  wife  of  your  old  patient,'' —-he  be- 
gan. 

"  Goes  as  the  cardinal's  niece,  you  know  ! 
we  didn't  know  the  costume  of  a  cardinal's 
niece,  and  so  I  told  her  to  wear  a  dress-coat 
and  pantaloons.    Will  you  go  ?  " 

Herman's  face  glowed  with  the  full  force 

of  his  MONOMANIA. 

"For" wine  and  feasting,  I  care  not,"  he 
cried,  "but  a  scene  where  beautiful  wo- 
men — "  he  paused,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on 
vacancy,  while  that  singular  monomania 
shone  from  his  humid  eyes,  and  fired  his 
cheeks  with  a  vivid  glow.  Where  are  we  to 
go  ?"  he  asked. 

"  To  the  Temple,"  said  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bul- 
gin, with  his  finger  on  his  light :  "  You  re- 
member the  night  when  we  were  there  ?  " 

"  Remember  ?  "  echoed  the  Rev.  Herman  ' 
Bamhurst,  with  an  accent  of  inexpressible 
rapture  :  "  Can  I  ever  forget  ?  "    He  strode 
hastily  toward  the  recess.     "  Where  is  the 
Jesuit  robe  ?  " 

But  as  he  touched  the  curtain  of  the  re- 
cess, he  was  palsied  by  a  sudden  thought. 

"Ah,  this  cobbler,  this  Dermoyne  !  He 
will  go  to  Madame  Resimer's  with  my  note 
in  his  hand,  and  pretend  to  come  in  my 
name.  He  will,  at  least,  induce  her  to  open 
the  doors,  and  then  force  his  way  into  her 
house.    If  he  enters  there,  I  am  lost." 

Turning  to  Bulgin,  he  flung  his  cloak 
around  him,  and  took  up  his  cap.  "No,  sir,  I 
cannot  go  with  you.  Excuse  me  —  I  am  in 
a  great  hurry." 

He  hurried  to  the  door,  and  disappeared 
ere  Bulgin  could  answer  him  with  a  word. 

"  Dermoyne  has  a  half  an  hour's  start  of 
me,"  muttered  Herman,  as  he  disappeared, 
"  I  must  be  quick,  or  I  am  lost." 

"  That  is  cool !  "  soliloquized  Bulgin  : 
"  some  difficulty  about  a  woman,  I  suppose  : 
our  young  friend  must  be  cautious  :  exposure 
in  these  matters  is  fatal." 

Without  bestowing  another  word  upon  his 


I 


116 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


friend,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bulgin,  attired  in  the 
cardinal's  hat  and  robe,  sank  in  the  arm- 
chair, and  put  his  feet  upon  the  table,  and 
flung  back  his  head,  thus  presenting  one  of 
the  finest  pictures  of  ecclesiastical  ease,  that 
ever  gratified  the  eyes  of  mortal  man. 

He  suffered  himself  to  be  seduced  into  the 
mazes  of  an  enchanting  reverie  : 

"Ah,  that's  my  ideal  of  a  man,"  he 
suffered  his  eye  to  rest  upon  the  head  of 
Leo  the  Tenth  :  "  Without  a  particle  of  re- 
ligion to  trouble  him,  he  took  care  of  the 
spiritual  destinies  of  the  world,  and  at  the 
same  time  enjoyed  his  palace,  where  the 
wine  Avas  of  the  choicest,  and  the  women  of 
the  youngest  and  most  beautiful.  He  was  a 
gentleman.  While  poor  Martin  Luther  was 
giving  himself  a  great  deal  of  trouble  about 
this  worthless  world,  Leo  had  a  world  of  his 
own,  within  the  Vatican,  a  world  of  wit,  of 
wine  and  beauty.  That's  my  ideal  of  an 
ecclesiastic.  Religion,  its  machinery,  and  its 
terrors  for  the  masses,  —  for  ourselves,"  he 
glanced  around  his  splendid  room,  "some- 
thing like  tliis^  and  five  thousand  a  year." 

And  the  good  man  shook  with  laughter. 

"I  must  be  going," — he  rose  to  his  feet — 
"It's  after  twelve  now,  and  before  one,  I 
must  be  at  the  Temple." 

And  while  Barnhurst,  Bulgin  and  Der- 
moyne  go  forth  on  their  respective  ways,  let 
us  —  although  the  Temple  is  very  near  — 
gaze  upon  a  scene,  by  no  means  lighted  by 
festal  lamps,  or  perfumed  with  voluptuous 
flowers.  Let  us  descend  into  the  subterra- 
nean world,  sunken  somewhere  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  Five  -Points  and  the  Tombs. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

BELOW    FIVE  POIXTS. 

It  is  NOW  the  hour  of  tAvelve,  midnight, 
on  the  23d  of  December,  1844. 

We  arc  in  the  region  of  the  Five  Points, 
near  the  Tombs,  whose  sullen  walls  look 
still  more  ominous  and  gloomy  in  the  wintery 
starlight. 

Enter  the  narow  door  of  the  frame-house, 
which  seems  toppling  to  the  ground.  You 
hear  the  sound  of  the  violin,  and  by  the 
light  of  tallow  candles,  inserted  in  tin  sconces 
which  are  affixed  to  the  blackened  walls, 


you  discover  some  twenty  persons,  black, 
white  and  chocolate-colored,  of  all  ages  and 
both  sexes,  dancing  and  drinking  together. 
It  is  an  orgie  —  an  orgie  of  crime,  drunken- 
ness and  rags. 

Pass  into  the  next  room.  By  a  single 
light,  placed  on  a  table,  you  discover  the 
features  of  three  or  four  gamblers, — not 
gamblers  of  the  gentlemanly  stamp,  who,  in 
luxurious  chambers,  prolong  the  game  of 
"  poker  "  all  night  long,  until  the  morning 
breaks,  or  the  champagne  gives  out, — but 
gamblers  of  a  lower  stamp,  ill-dressed  fel- 
lows, whose  highest  stake  is  a  shilling,  and 
whose  favorite  beverage  is  whisky,  and 
Avhisky  that  is  only  whisky  in  name,  while 
in  fact,  it  is  poison  of  the  vilest  sort — whis- 
ky classically  called  "red-eye." 

Open  a  scarcely  distinguishable  door,  at 
the  back  of  the  ruffian  who  sits  at  the  head 
of  the  table.  Descend  a  narrow  stairway, 
or  rather  ladder,  which  lands  you  in  the 
darkness,  some  twenty  feet  below  the  level 
of  the  street.  Then,  in  the  darkness,  feel 
your  way  along  the  passage  which  turns  to 
the  right  and  left,  and  from  left  to  right 
again,  until  your  senses  are  utterly  bewilder- 
ed. At  length,  after  groping  your  way  in  the 
darkness,  over  an  uneven  floor,  and  between 
narrow  walls ;  after  groping  your  Avay  you 
know  not  how  far,  you  descend  a  second 
ladder,  ten  feet  or  more,  and  find  yourself 
confronted  by  a  door.  You  are  at  least  two 
stories  under  ground,  and  all  is  dark  aroimd 
you  —  the  sound  of  voices  strikes  your  ear ; 
but  do  not  be  afraid.  Find  the  latch  of  the 
door  and  push  it  open.  A  strange  scene 
confronts  you. 

The  Black  Senate  ! 

A  room  or  cell,  some  twenty  feet  square, 
is  warmed  by  a  small  coal  stove,  which,  heat- 
ed to  a  red  heat,  stands  in  the  center,  its  pipe 

'  inserted  in  the  low  ceiling,  and  leading  you 
know  not  where.  Around  the  stove,  by  the 
light  of  three  tallow  candles  placed  upon  a 

I  packing-box,  are  grouped  some  twenty  oi 

'  thirty  persons,  who  listen  attentively  to  tli? 

I  words  of  the  gentlaman  who  is  seated  by 

:  the  packing-box. 

'     This  gentleman  is  almost  a  giant ;  hit 
chest  is  broad  ;  his  limbs  brawny  ;  and  hii 
'  face,  black  as  the  "  ace  of  spades,"  is  ii. 
'  strong  contrast  with  his  white  teeth,  whitil 


i  sii»le 
■•er  iiie 

:imf  of 
Hiorjig 
'■■Ai 

door,  at 

j!i  ia 
liie  level 
ines,  feel 
1  turns  to 
to  riglit 
ae  A' 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


117 


d  between 
r  m  jon 
a  second 
,1  yoiiRelf . 

arhroimi 
rourear 
iVliof  thi 
m  sceiw 


eyeballs,  white  eyebrows,  and  white  wool. 
He  is  a  negro,  with  flat  nose,  thick  lips,  and 
mouth  reaching  from  ear  to  ear.  His  almost 
giant  frame  is  clad  in  a  sloek  suit  of  blue 
cloth,  and  he  wears  a  cravat  of  spotless 
whiteness. 

His  auditors  arc  not  so  fortunate  in  the 
way  of  dress.  Of  all  colors,  from  jet  black 
to  chocolate-brown,  they  are  clad  in  all 
sorts  of  costumes,  only  alike  in  raggedness 
and  squalor. 

This  is  the  Black  Senate,  which  has  met 
for  business  to-night,  in  this  den,  two  stories 
under  ground.  Its  deliberations,  in  point  of 
decorum,  may  well  compare  with  some  other 
senates,  —  one  in  especial,  where  '  Liar !' 
is  occasionally  called,  fisticuffs  exchanged, 
knives  and  pistols  drawn ;  and  it  embraces 
representatives  from  all  parts  of  the  Union. 
"Whether,  like  another  senate,  it  has  its 
dramatic  characters, — its  low  clown,  melo- 
dramatic ruffians,  genteel  comedian,  and 
high  tragedy  hero,  remains  to  be  seen. 

The  very  black  gentleman,  by  the  packing- 
box — book  in  one  hand  and  paper  and  pencil 
before  him — is  the  speaker  of  the  house.  It 
is  our  old   acquaintance  "Royal  Bill," 


wintlie|lately  from  South  Carolina. 

"  The  genelman  frum  Varginny  hab  de 
floor,"  said  the  speaker,  with  true  parlia- 
mentary politeness. 

The  gentleman  from  Virginia  was  a  six- 
foot  mulatto,  dressed  in  a  ragged  coat  and 
trowsers  of  iron  gray.  As  he  rose  there  was 
an  evident  sensation ;  white  teeth  were 
shown,  and  "  Go  in  nigga  !"  uttered  encou- 
ragingly by  more  than  one  of  the  colored 
congressmen. 

'*Dis  nigga  rise  to  de  point  ob  ordah. 
square, |Di3  nigga  am  taught  a  great  many  tings  by 
rtichjWfpliilosopy.  One  day,  in  de  'baccy  field,  dis 
,,r  its  pipe  fnigga  says  to  hisself,  saj's  he.  *  Dat  are  pig 
leadin^yi' lit)' longs  to  massa,  so  does  dis  nigga.  Dis 
j,,^5  bjtlnitiigga  kill  dat  pig  un  eat  'um  —  dat  be 
jpoDlistealin'?  Lordy  Moses  —  no!  It  only  be 
,  {^ejty  *[puttin' one  ting  dat  b' longs  to  massa  into 
v^]^  to  tinman  Oder  ting  dat  also  b'longs  to  ma.ssa  : — dat's 
.jjjtedljipliilosopy— " 

!  "  S'pose  de  nigga  be  caught  ?"  interrupted 
^jjt;  lil^a  colored  gentleman,  lighting  his  pipe  at  the 
J.  jjildllred-hot  stove. 

" 2?rt^  wouldn't  be  philosopy,"  responded 
^^^^ Ithe  gentleman  from  Virginia.    "  It  aint  phi- 


losopy to  be  caught.  On  de  contrary  it  am 
dam  foolishness." 

A  murmur  of  assent  pervaded  the  place. 

"  Soh,  reasonin'  from  de  pig,  dis  nigga  wor 
taught  by  philosopy  to  tink  a  great  deal—  to 
tink  berry  much;  —  and  soh,  one  day  de 
nigga  got  a  kind  o'  abscn'  minded,  and 
walked  off,  and  f<n-got  to  come  hach. — Dis 
nigga  actooaly  did." 

"Dat  loor  philosopy!"  said  a  voice. 

"  An'  as  de  nigga  is  in  bad  health,  he  am 
on  his  way  to  Canada,  whar  de  climate  am 
good  for  nigga's  pulmonaries.  An'  fur  fear 
de  nigga  m ought  hurt  people's  fcelin',  he 
trabels  by  night ;  an'  fur  fear  he  mought  be 
axed  questi'n  which  'ud  trubble  him  to 
ansaw,  he  canies  dese  sartificats — " 

He  showed  his  certificates — a  revolving 
pistol  and  a  knife.  And  each  one  of  the' 
colored  congressmen  produced  certificates  of 
a  similar  character  from  their  rags. 

"  Lor',  philosopy  am  a  dam  good  ting !" 

"Don't  sweah,  nigga! — behabe  yesself!" 

"Read  us  nuddcr  won  ob  dem  good  chap'er 
from  de  Bible,  Mistaw  Speakaw,"  cried  a 
dark  gentleman,  addressing  old  Royal. — 
"  ^JShud,  I  hab  a  message  f  ro7n  God  to  dee  ! ' 
Yah-hah-hah  !" 

"  Yah-hah-a-what !"  chorused  the  ma- 
jority of  the  congress,  showing  their  teeth 
and  shaking  their  woolly  heads  together. 

"  Jis  tell  us  som'thin'  more  about  yer  ole 
massa,  dat  you  lick  last  night,"  cried  a 
voice. 

"  Dat  am  an  ole  story,"  said  old  Royal, 
with  dignity.  "  Suffis  it  to  say,  dat  about 
five  o'clock  last  ebenin',  I  took  massa  Harry 
from  de  house  whar  he'd  been  licked,  de 
night  afore,  and  tuk  him  in  a  carriage  and 
put  'im  aboard  de  cars  at  Princeton.  I  gib 
him  some  brandy  likewise.  His  back  was 
berry  sore — " 

Here  one  of  the  gentlemen  broke  in  with 
a  parody  of  a  well-known  song — 

"Oh,  carry  mc  back  to  olc  Varginny— 
My  back  am  berry  sore — "' 

He  began,  in  rich  Ethiopian  bass. 

"  Silence  nigga  !"  said  old  Royal,  sternly, 
yet,  shoAving  his  white  teeth  in  a  broad  grin. 
"  He  am  in  New  York  at  the  present  time, 
at  de  Astor  House,  I  'spec' ;  an'  de  Blood- 
houn'  am  with  him — " 

"  De  kidnapper !" 


118 


FROM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


"De  nigger- catcher 

Cries  like  these  resounded  from  twenty- 
throats  ;  and  by  the  way  in  which  knives 
and  pistols  were  produced  and  brandished, 
it  was  evident  that  there  was  a  cordial  feel- 
ing— almost  too  cordial — entertained  by  the 
congress,  toward  our  old  friend,  Bloodhound. 

"  To  business,"  said  old  Royal,  surveying 
the  motley  crowd.  "I  hab  come  to  visit  you 
to-night  by  d'rection  ob  somehody  dat  you 
dovHt  Icnoiv.  It  am  ob  de  last  importance  dat 
you  all  get  yesselves  out  o'  dis  town  to 
Canada  as  quick  as  de  Lord  'ill  let  you. 
Darfore  I  hab  provided  you  wid  dem 
revolvers," — he  pointed  to  the  pistols,  "and 
derfore  I  am  here,  to  send  you  on  yer  ways, 
for  de  kidnappers  am  about." 

"  Oh,  dam  de  kidnappers !"  was  the  em- 
phatic remark  of  a  dark  gentleman  ;  and  it 
was  chorused  by  the  congress  unanimously. 

"It  am  berry  easy  to  say  'dam  de  kid- 
nappers,'— berry  easy  to  say  dam — dam 's  a 
berry  short  word ;  but  s'pose  de  kidnapper 
hab  you,  and  tie  you,  and  take  you  down 
south — eh,  nigga  ?  w'at  den  ?" 

But  before  the  gentlemen  could  reply  to 
this  pointed  question  of  old  Royal's,  a  cir- 
cumstance took  place  which  put  an  entire 
new  face  upon  the  state  of  affairs. 

The  door  was  burst  open,  and  two  persons 
tumbled  into  the  room,  heels  over  head. 
Descending  the  stairs  in  the  darkness,  these 
persons  had  missed  their  footing,  and  fell. 
The  door  gave  way  before  their  united 
weight,  and  they  rolled  into  the  room  in  a 
style  more  forcible  than  graceful. 

When  these  persons  recovered  themselves 
and  rose  to  their  feet,  they  found  themselves 
encircled  by  some  thirty  uplifted  knives, — 
every  knife  grasped  by  the  hand  of  a  brawny 
negro.  And  the  cry  which  greeted  them 
was  by  no  means  pleasant  to  hear  : — 

"Death  to  the  kidnappers  !" 

"  We're  fooled.  It's  a  trap,"  cried  one  of 
the  persons — our  old  friend  Bloodhound. 

"  Trap  or  no  trap,  I'll  cut  the  heart  of  the 
damned  nigger  that  comes  near  me,"  cried 
the  other  person,  who  was  none  other  than 
our  friend  Harry  Royalton,  of  Hill  Royal, 
South  Carolina. 

The  cloak  had  fallen  from  his  shoulders, 
the  cap  from  his  brow.  He  stood  erect,  his 
tall  form  clad  in  black,  with  a  gold  chain  on 


the  breast,  dilating  in  every  muscle.  His 
face,  with  its  large  eyes  and  bushy  whiskers — 
a  face  by  no  means  unhandsome,  as  regards 
mere  animal  beauty — was  convulsed  with 
rage.  And  even  as  he  started  to  his  feet,  he 
drew  a  revolver  from  his  belt,  and  stood  at  bay, 
the  very  picture  of  ferocity  and  desperation. 
While  his  right  hand  grasped  the  revolver, 
his  left  hand  flourished  a  bowie-knife. 
Harry  Royalton  was  dangerous. 

By  his  side  was  the  short,  stout  figure  of 
the  Bloodhound,  encased  to  his  chin  in  a 
rough  overcoat,  and,  with  his  stiff,  gray  hairs 
straggling  from  beneath  his  seal-skin  cap 
over  his  prominent  cheek-bones.  His  small 
gray  eyes,  twinkling  under  his  bushy  brows, 
glanced  around  with  a  look  half  desperation, 
half  fear. 

And  around  the  twain  crowded  the  ne- 
groes, every  hand  grasping  a  knife ;  every 
face  distorted  with  hatred  ;  and  old  Royal, 
in  his  sleek  blue  dress  and  white  cravat, 
prominent  in  that  group  of  black  visa,ges 
and  ragged  forms. 

"  They've  got  us  !  Judas  Iscar-i-ot !  It's 
a  trap,  my  boy.  We'll  have  to  cut  ourselves 
loose." 

"Back,  you  dogs !"  shouted  Ham'-,  with 
the  attitude  and  look  of  command.  "  The 
first  one  that  lays  a  finger  on  me  I'll  blow 
him  to  !" 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  moment,  ere 
the  conflict  began.  Thirty  uplifted  knives, 
awaited  only  a  look,  a  gesture,  from  old 
Royal. 

That  gentleman,  grinning  until  his  white 
teeth  were  visible  almost  from  ear  to  ear, 
said  calmly — "Dis  am  a  revivin'  time,  wid 
showers  of  grace !  Some  nigga  shut  dat 
door  and  make  'um  fast." 

His  words  were  instantly  obeyed  ;  one  of 
the  thirty  closed  the  door  and  bolted  it. 

"Now,  massa  Harry,"  said  old  Royal, 
grinning  and  showing  the  whites  of  his  eyes, 
"  dis  am  a  fav'oble  opportunity  fur  savin* 
your  poor  lost  soul.  How  you  back  feel,  ole 
boy  ?  Want  a  leetle  more  o'  de  same  sort, 
p'raps  ?  S'pose  you  draw  dat  trigger  ?  Jis 
try.  Lor  a  massa,  why  dere's  enough  niggas 
here  to  eat  you  up  widout  pepper  or  salt." 

Harry  laid  his  finger  on  the  trigger  and 
fired,  at  the  same  moment  stepping  suddenly 
backward,  with  the  intention  of  planting 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


119 


regaiJs 
1  ik 

evok 


3^11!  of 

in  in  3 

'iin  ca| 
h  siall 
J  broffj, 
[leratioD, 

h  Be- 
e;  eTcry 

^  m\ 
i  v: 

■ot! 

irrv,  mtl 

il'libloii 

meot,  ere 

from  ol( 

his  white 
ar  to  eaJ| 


himself  against  the  wall.  But  he  forgot  the 
negroes  behind  him.  As  he  fired,  his  heels 
were  tripped  up ;  his  ball  passed  over  old 
Boyal's  head.  Harry  was  leveled  to  the 
floor,  and  in  an  instant  old  Ro3^al's  giant-like 
gripe  was  on  his  throat.  And  by  his  side, 
wriggling  in  the  grasp  of  a  huge  negro,  black 
as  ink,  and  strong  as  Hercules,  our  friend 
Bloodhound,  rubbed  his  face  against  the 
floor. 

Over  and  around  these  central  figures 
gathered  the  remainder  of  the  band,  filling 
the  den  with  their  shouts — 

"  Death  to  the  dam  kidnappers  !" 
"  Yah-hah  !    Cut  their  dam  throats  !" 
Cries  like  these,  interspersed  with  frightful 
howls,  filled  the  place. 

The  Bloodhound  moaned  pitifully;  and 
Parry,  with  the  suffocating  gripe  of  old 
■Boyal  on  his  throat,  and  his  back  yet  raw 
from  the  lashes  of  the  previous  night,  could 
not  repress  a  groan  of  agony. 
It  was  a  critical  moment. 
"  Do  you  know,  massa  Harry,"  —  and  old 
Eoyal  bent  his  face  down  until  Harry  felt 
his  breath  upon  his  cheek — "  Do  you  know, 
massa  Harry,  dat  you  are  not  berry  far  from 
glory  ?    Kingdom-come  am  right  afore,  ole 
boy — and  you  am  booked — hah  !  yah  ! — wid 
a  through  ticket." 
Old  Royal,  (who  had  laid  down  his  pistol,) 
a  knife  from  one  of  the  negroes,  and, 
tightening  his  gripe  and  pressing  his  knee 
more  firmly  on  Harry's  breast,  he  passed  the 
'ittering  blade  before  his  eyes. 

"  Oh  !"   groaned  Royalton.    The  groan 
was  wrung  from  him  by  intolerable  agony. 
"  Let  me  up — a-h  !"  cried  Bloodhound, 
,  sliut  d)     ^  smothered  voice,  as  his  face  was  pressed 
against  the  hard  boards. 
0118 "Death  to  the  dam  kidnappers  !" 
ted  it.    1    Old  Royalton  clenched  the  knife  with 
old      ibis  left  hand,  and  placed  its  point  against 


time, 


•fiirsavii 
same  suit 


or  salt'' 


Carry's  breast, 

*'  You  am  bound  for  glory,  massa — "  and 
A  negro  held  a  candle  over  Harry's  face,  as 
■aid  Royal  spoke.  i 
I   At  this  critical  moment,  even  as  Harry's  { 
life  hung  on  a  thread,  a  violent  knocking  j 
was  heard  at  the  door,  and  a  voice  resounded  i 
^  'through  its  panels —  j 
Old  Royal,  old  Royal,  I  say  !  Let  me  in, 
^juick  !  quick !"  i 
8 


"  Open  the  door,  nigga.  It's  massa  Harry's 
brack  brudder.  Let  um  in,  so  he  can  see  his 
brudder  bound  for  glory  !" 

The  door  was  opened,  and  Randolph,  palo 
as  death,  came  rushing  to  the  light.  Wrap- 
ped in  the  cloak,  which  concealed  his  pistols 
and  knives,  and  which  hung  about  his  tall 
form  in  heavy  folds,  he  advanced  with  a 
footstep  at  once  trembling  and  e^ger. 

His  pale  face  was  stamped  with  hatred  ; 
his  blue  eyes  shone  with  vengeance,  as  he 
at  a  glance  beheld  the  pitiful  condition  of 
his  brother. 

"  Soh,  brother  of  mine,  we  have  met 
again !"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  which  was 
hoarse  and  deep  with  the  thirst  of  ven- 
geance. 

"  Why,  he's  whitaw  dan  his  white  brud- 
der !"  cried  the  negro  who  held  the  light. 

"Release  him,"  cried  Randolph  —  "Re- 
lease him,  I  say  !  Tie  that  fellow  there  ;" 
he  touched  Bloodhound  with  his  foot ; 
close  the  door.  You'll  see  a  fight  worth 
seeing ;  a  fight  between  the  master  and 
slave,  between  brother  and  brother.  Do  you 
hear  me,  Royal  ?  Let  him  get  up, — " 

"  But  massa  'Dolph  !"  hesitated  old  Royal. 

"  Up,  I  say  !"  and  Randolph  flung  his  cap 
and  cloak  to  the  floor,  and  drew  two  bowie- 
knives  from  his  belt.  "  Up,  I  say !  You 
have  heard  my  history  from  old  Royal  ?"  he 
glanced  around  among  the  negroes. 

"  Yah-hah !  an'  ob  de  lashes  dat  you  gib 
dis  dam  kidnapper  !"  said  the  negro  who 
held  the  candle. 

"  Then  stand  by  and  see  us  settle  our  last 
account,"  cried  Randolph.  "  Let  him  get 
up,  old  Royal." 

"  Old  Royal  released  his  hold,  and  Harry 
slowly  arose  to  his  feet,  and  stood  face  to 
face  with  his  brother. 

"  Good  evening,  brother,"  said  Randolph. 
"  We  have  met  again,  and  for  the  last  time. 
One  of  us  will  not  leave  this  place  alive. 
Take  your  choice  of  knives,  brother.  I  will 
fight  you  with  my  left  hand  ;  I  swear  it  by 
my  mother's  name  !" 

Harry  looked  around  with  a  confused 
glance — 

"It  is  easy  for  you  to  talk,"  he  said, 
brushing  his  hand  over  his  forehead  and  eyes, 
as  if  in  effort  to  collect  his  scattered  senses. 
"  Even  if  I  kill  you,  these  niggers  will  kill  me. 


120 


FKOM  NIGHTFALL 


UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


They  will  not  Jet  me  leave  the  door  alive, 
even  if  I  master  you." 

"  Old  Royal,  you  know  my  histor}^ ;  and 
you  know  how  this  man  has  treated  me  and 
my  sister' — his  own  flesh  and  blood.  Now 
swear  to  me,  that  in  case  he  is  the  victor  in 
the  contest  that  is  about  to  take  place,  you 
will  let  him  go  from  this  place  free  and  un- 
harmed ?" 

"  I — I — swear  it  massa  'Dolph  ;  I  swear  it 
by  de  Lord  !" 

"And  you?"  Randolph  turned  to  the 
negroes. 

"  We  does  jist  as  old  Royal  says,"  cried 
the  one  who  held  the  candle  ;  and  the  rest 
muttered  their  assent. 

"Take  your  choice  of  knives,  brother," 
said  Randolph,  as  his  eyes  shone  with 
deadly  light,  and  his  face,  already  pale,  grew 
perfectly  colorless  :  "  The  handles  are  toward 
you  ;  take  your  choice.  Remember  I  am  to 
fight  you  with  my  left  hand.  You  are  weak, 
brother,  from  the  wounds  on  your  back. 
With  my  left  hand  I  will  fight  and  kill 
you." 

Harry  Royalton  took  one  of  the  knives — 
they  were  ivory  handled,  silver  mounted, 
and  their  blades  were  long,  sharp  and  glitter- 
ing—  and  at  the  same  time  surveyed  his 
brother  from  head  to  foot. 

"  I  can  kill  him,"  he  thought,  and  smiled; 
and  then  said  aloud,  "  I  am  ready." 

The  negroes  formed  a  circle ;  old  Royal 
held  the  light,  and  the  brothers  stood  in  the 
center,  silently  surveying  each  other,  ere  the 
fatal  contest  began.  Every  eye  remarked 
the  contrast  between  their  faces.  Harry's 
face  flushed  with  long- pent-up  rage,  and 
Randolph's,  pallid  as  a  corpse,  yet  with  an 
ominous  light  in  his  eyes.  Both  tall  and 
well  formed ;  both  clad  in  black,  which 
showed  to  advantage,  their  broad  chests  and 
muscular  arms  ;  there  was,  despite  the  color 
of  their  eyes  and  hair,  some  trace  of  a  family 
likeness  in  their  faces. 

"  Come,  brother,  begin,"  said  Randolph,  in 
a  low  voice,  which  was  heard  distinctly 
through  the  profound  stillness.  "  Remember 
that  I  am  your  slave,  and  that  when  I  have 
killed  you,  I,  with  sister  Esther,  also 
your  slave,  will  inherit  one  seventh  of  the 
Van  Huyden  estate, — remember  how  you 
have  lashed  and  hounded  us, — remember  the 


dying  words  of  our  father — and  then  defend 
yourself:  for  I  must  kill  you,  brother. 
Come  !" 

Raising  the  knife  with  his  left  hand,  ha 
drew  his  form  to  its  full  height,  and  stood 
on  his  defense. 

You  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop  in  that 
crowded  cellar. 

"You  damned  slave!"  shouted  Harry, 
and  at  the  same  time,  rushed  forward, 
clutching  his  knife  in  his  right  hand.  His 
face  was  inflamed  with  rage,  his  eye  steady, 
his  hand  firm,  and  the  point  of  his  knife 
was  aimed  at  his  brother's  heart. 

The  intention  was  deadly,  but  the  knife 
never  harmed  Randolph's  heart.  Even  as 
Harry  rushed  forward,  his  knees  bent  under 
him,  and  he  fell  flat  on  his  face,  and  the 
knife  dropped  from  his  nerveless  fingers. 
Overcome  by  the  violence  of  his  emotions, 
which  whirled  all  the  blood  in  his  body,  in 
a  torrent  to  his  head,  he  had  sunk  lifeless  on 
the  floor,  even  as  he  sprang  forward  to  plunge 
his  knife  into  his  brother's  heart. 

Randolph,  who  had  prepared  himself  to 
meet  his  brother's  blow,  was  thunderstruck 
by  this  unexpected  incident. 

"De  Lord  hab  touck  him,"  cried  old 
Royal;  "he  am  dead." 

Dead  !  At  that  word,  revenge,  vengeance, 
the  memory  of  his  wrongs,  and  of  hia 
brother's  baseness,  all  glided  from  Ran- 
dolph's heart,  like  snow  before  the  flame. 
In  vain  he  tried  to  combat  this  sudden 
change  of  feeling.  Dead  !  The  word  struck 
him  to  the  soul.  He  dropped  his  knife,  and 
sinking  on  one  knee,  he  placed  upon  the 
other  the  head  of  his  lifeless  brother. 
Harry's  eyes  were  closed,  as  if  in  death  ;  his 
lips  hung  apart,  his  face  was  colorless.  j 

"  De  Lord  hab  touck  him,"  again  cried  old 
Royal ;  and  his  remark  was  welcomed  by  o 
burst  of  laughter  from  the  thirty  negroes, 
which  broke  upon  the  breathless  stillness, 
like  the  yell  of  so  many  devils. 

"  He  is  not  dead :  he  has  only  fainted 
Water!  water!"  cried  Randolph.  But  he 
cried  in  vain. 

"  Dis  nigga  am  not  agoin'  to  gib  him  on( 
drop  to  cool  him  parched  tongue,"  said  ok 
Royal,  showing  his  teeth.  "What  say 
niggas  ?" 

"  Not  a  drop !  not  a  dam  drop  1" 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


121 


Reaching  forth  his  hand,  liandolph  seized 
his  cap  and  cloak,  and  then  started  to  his 
feet,  with  the  insensible  form  of  Harry  in 
his  arms.  Without  a  -word,  he  moved  to  the 
door. 

"Massa  'Dolph,  massa  'Dolph  !"  shouted 
old  Royal.  "  By  de  Lord,  you  don't  take 
him  from  dis  place ;"  and  he  endeavored  to 
place  himself  between  Randolph  and  the 
door. 

Randolph  saw  the  determination  which 
was  written  on  his  face,  and  saw  the  looks 
and  heard  the  yells  of  the  thirty  negroes  ; 
and  then,  without  a  word,  felled  old  Royal 
to  the  floor.  One  blow  of  his  right  hand, 
planted  on  the  negro's  breast,  struck  him 
down  like  an  ox  under  the  butcher's  ax. 
When  old  Royal,  mad  with  rage,  rose  to  his 
feet  again,  Randolph  had  disappeared — dis- 
appeared with  his  brother,  whom  he  bore  in 
his  arms  to  upper  air. 

"  Let's  after  um,"  shouted  the  foremost  of 
the  negroes. 

Old  Royal  stepped  to  the  door,  (which 
Randolph  had  closed  after  him,)  but  stopped 
abruptly  on  the  threshold,  as  if  arrested  by 
.  a  sudden  thought. 

"  Dis  nigga  meet  you  'gin,  massa  'Dolph," 
he  muttered,  and  then,  pointing  to  some- 
thing which  was  folded  up  in  one  corner,  he 
.said,  "  Dar's  game  fur  you  niggas  !" 

He  pointed  to  the  form  of  poor  Blood- 
hound, who,  tied  and  gagged,  lay  helpless 
and  groaning  on  the  floor. 

It  was,  perhaps,  the  most  remarkable  hour 
in  Bloodhound's  life.  His  hands  and  feet 
tightly  bound,  a  coarse  handkerchief  wound 
over  his  mouth,  and  tied  behind  his  neck, 
he  was  deprived  of  the  power  of  speech  or 
motion.  But  the  power  of  vision  remained. 
His  small  gray  eyes  twinkled  fearfully,  as  he 
beheld  the  faces  of  the  thirty  negroes — faces 
that  were  convulsed  with  rage,  resembling 
not  so  much  the  visages  of  men  as  of  devils. 
And  he  could  also  hear.  He  heard  the  yell 
from  thirty  throats,  a  yell  which  was  cho- 
rused with  certain  Avords,  mingling  his  own 
name  with  an  emphatic  desire  for  his  blood — 
his  life. 

Bloodhound  was  an  old  man  ;  his  hair  was 
gray  with  the  snows  of  sixty  years,  spent  in 
the  practice  of  all  the  virtues  ;  but  Blood- 
hound felt  a  peculiar  sensation  gather  about 


his  heart,  at  this  most  remarkable  moment 
of  his  life, 

*  Bring  forrad  de  pris'ner,"  said  old  Royal, 
resuming  his  seat  by  the  packing-box.  "  Put 
'um  on  him  feet.  Take  de  kankercher  from 
him  jaw." 

He  was  obeyed.  Bloodhound  stood  erect 
in  the  center  of  the  group,  his  hands  and 
feet  tied,  but  his  tongue  free.  The  light, 
uplifted  in  the  hand  of  a  brawny  negro,  fell 
fully  upon  his  carded  face,  with  its  gray 
hair,  bushy  eyebrows,  and  wide  mouth. 
Bloodhound's  hands  shook, — not  with  cold, 
for  the  place  was  suffocatingly  warm, — and 
Bloodhound  trembled  in  every  atom  of  his 
short  thick-set  body.  Glancing  before  him, 
then  to  the  right  and  left,  and  then  back- 
ward over  each  shoulder,  he  saw  black  faces 
everywhere,  and  black  hands  grasping  sharp 
knives,  confronted  him  at  every  turn. 

"  You  am  a  berry  handsum  man,"  said  old 
Royal,  encouragingly.  "  Jist  look  at  imi, 
niggas.    Do  you  know  de  pris'ner  ?" 

The  replies  to  this  query  came  so  fast  and 
thick,  that  we  are  unable  to  put  them  all 
upon  paper. 

"He  stole  me  fader  !" 

"  He  took  me  mother  from  Fildelfy  and 
sold  her  down  south." 

"  He  kidnapped  my  little  boy.'' 

"  Dam  kidnapper  !  he  stole  my  wife  !" 

**  I  knows  him,  I  does — he  does  work  for 
de  man  dat  sells  niggas  in  Baltimore." 

"Don't  you  know  how  he  tuk  de  yaller 
gal  away  from  Fildelfy,  making  b'lieve  dat 
her  own  fader  was  a-dyin',  and  sent  for  her?  " 

Such  were  a  few  of  the  responses  to  old 
Royal's  question.  It  was  evident  that 
Bloodhound  was  hnown.  And,  although, 
his  hair  had  grown  gray  in  the  practice  of 
all  the  virtues,  it  did  not  give  him  much 
pleasure  to  find  that  he  was  known ;  for 
he  felt  that  he  was  in  the  hands  'of  the 
wicked. 

"  Don't  hurt  me,  niggers,  don*t  hurt  me  ! 
I  was  'nt  after  any  of  you,  upon  my  word,  I 
was'nt.  I've  allays  been  good  to.  the  nig- 
gers, when  I  could  get  a  chance, — don't  hurt 
me  ! " 

"  Oh  !  we  won't  go  fur  to  hurt  massa,  will 
we  niggas  ?  "  replied  old  Royal. 

"  0'  cos  no^,  Pon't  tink  of  sich  a  ting  1 
Yah-hah!" 


122 


FROM  NIGHTFALL  UNTIL  MIDNIGHT. 


"  You  see  I've  got  a  child  at  home,"  fal- 
tered Bloodhound,  "that  is  to  say,  two  or 
three  of  'em.  You  would'nt  go  to  hurt  the 
father  of  a  family,  would  you  ?  " 

"Does  you  know  massa,  dat  you  mos' 
make  dis  nigga  cry,"  cried  old  Royal,  with 
an  infernal  grin.  "  Niggas,  'scure  dis  tear  I 
He  am  de  fader  ob  a  family,  dis  good  man 
am." 

Old  Royal  wiped  away  a  tear, — that  is, 
an  imaginary  tear, — and  then  surveyed  the 
faces  of  his  colored  brethren,  with  a  look 
that  turned  Bloodhound's  heart  to  ice.  He 
felt  that  he  was  lost. 

"  Don't,  don't,  d-o-n-'-t ! "  he  shrieked,  in 
agony  of  fear,  "  d-o-n-'-t ! " 

"  Why,  who's  a-touchin'  you  ?  Dar  am 
not  a  single,  solitary,  blessed  soul,  layin'  a 
fingaw  on  you." 

As  old  Royal  spoke,  he  made  a  sign  with 
the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  his  right  hand. 
It  was  obeyed  by  a  huge  negro  who  stood 
behind  Bloodhound, — he  struck  the  wretch- 
ed man  on  the  back  of  the  head,  with  the 
stock  of  a  revolver, — struck  him  with  all 
the  force  of  his  brawny  arm,  —  and  the 
hard,  dull  sound  of  the  blow,  was  heard 
distinctly,  even  above  the  fiendish  shouts  of 
the  negroes. 

"Oh!  don't,  d-o-n-'-t!"  shrieked  Blood- 
hound, as  the  blood  spurted  over  his  hair 
and  forehead,  and  even  into  his  eyes ; 
"  don»t,  d-o-n-'-t ! " 

Another  blow.  —  from  behind,  —  brought 


him  to  his  knees.  And  then  the  thirty,  or 
as  many  as  could  get  near  him,  closed  round 
him,  shouting  and  yelling  and  striking. 
Every  face  was  distorted  with  rage ;  every 
hand  grasped  a  knife.  Old  Royal,  who 
calmly  surveyed  the  scene,  saw  the  backs 
and  faces  of  the  negroes ;  saw  the  knives 
glittering,  as  they  rose  and  fell ;  but  Blood- 
i  hound  was  not  to  be  seen.  But  his  cries 
were  heard,  as  he  madly  grappled  with  the 
knives  which  stabbed  him, — for  his  bonds 
had  been  cut  by  one  of  the  band, — and 
these  cries,  thick  and  husky,  as  though  his 
utterance  was  choked  by  blood,  would  have 
moved  a  heart  of  stone.  But  every  shriek 
only  seemed  to  give  new  fire  to  the  rage  of 
the  negroes  ;  and  gathering  closer  round  the 
miserable  man,  they  lifted  their  knives, 
dripping  with  his  blood,  and  struck  and 
struck  and  struck  again,  until  his  cries  were 
stilled.  As  he  uttered  the  last  cry,  he  ^ 
sprang  madly  into  light,  for  a  moment, 
shook  his  bloody  hands  above  his  head,  and 
then  fell  to  rise  no  more. 

You  would  not  have  liked  to  have  seen 
the  miserable  thing  which  was  stretched  on 
the  floor,  in  the  center  of  that  horrible  cir- 
cle, a  miserable,  mangled,  shapeless  thing, 
which,  only  a  moment  ago,  was  a  living 
man. 

"Now  genelmen,"  said  old  Royal,  calmly, 
"de  business  bein'  done,  dis  meetin'  stand 
adjourn  till  furder  ordaw.  Niggas,  I  tink 
you'd  bettaw  cut  stick." 


NEW  YORK: 

ITS 

[JPPER-TEN  AND  LOWER  MILLION. 


PART  THIRD. 


"THROUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY." 

DECEMBER  24,  1844. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  DEN  OF  MADAM  RESIMER. 

Yonder,  in  the  still  winter  night,  the  tem- 
ple stands,  all  dark  and  sullen  without,  but 
bright  with  festal  lights  within.  Stand  here 
in  the  dark,  and  you  will  see  the  guests  of 
the  temple  come, — now  one  by  one, — ^now 
two  by  two, — sometimes  in  parties  of  four, — 
and  all  are  carefully  cloaked  and  masked. 
They  come  noiselessly  along  the  dark  street : 
they  glide  stealthily  up  the  steps,  and  be- 
neath the  arch  of  the  gloomy  door.  A  gentle 
knock, — the  door  is  slightly  opened, — a  pass- 
word is  whispered, — and  one  by  one,  and  two 
two,  and  sometimes  in  parties  of  four,  the 
guests  of  THE  temple  glide  over  its  threshold, 
and  pass  like  shadows  from  the  sight. 

Shall  we  also  enter  ?  Not  yet.  We  will 
wait  until  the  revel  is  at  its  height,  and 
until  the  masks  begin  to  fall. 

Meanwhile,  we  will  follow  the  adventures 
of  Arthur  Dermoyne. 

About  half-past  twelve  o'clock,  Arthur 
Dermoyne  stood  in  the  street,  in  front  of  the 
house  of  Madam  Resimer.  Wrapped  in  his 
cloak,  and  with  his  cap  drawn  over  his  eyes, 
he  stood  in  the  shadows,  and  gazed  fixedly 
upon  the  mansion  opposite. .  It  stood  in  the 
midst  of  a  crowded  street,  joined  with 
houses  on  either  side,  and  yet  it  stood  alone. 
Black  and  sullen  with  its  closed  shutters 
and  somber  exterior,  it  seemed  to  bear  upon 
its  face  the  stamp  of  the  infernal  crimes 
which  had  been  committed  within  its  walls. 
Lofty  mansions  lined  the  street,  but  their 
wealthy  occupants  little  knew  the  real 
character  of  the  woman  (woman  !  —  fiend 
■would  be  a  better  name)  who  tenanted  the 
gloomy  house. 


With  great  difficulty,  —  it  matters  not 
how, — Arthur  had  discovered  the  haunt  of 
this  murderess.  Her  name  was  one  of  those 
names  which  creep  through  society  like  the 
vague  panic  which  foretells  the  pestilence ; 
there  were  few  who  did  not  know  that  such 
a  person  existed,  and  few  whose  hearts  did 
shrink  in  loathing,  from  the  very  mention  of 
her  name.  But  her  haunt,  centered  in  an 
aristocratic  quarter,  was  comparatively  un- 
known ;  only  her  customers  and  some  of  the 
publishers  of  newspapers,  with  whom  she 
advertised,  were  aware  that  the  sullen  house 
which  stood  in  a  fashionable  street,  was  the 
den  of  Madam  Resimer. 

That  such  a  creature  should  exist,  and 
grow  rich  in  the  city  of  New  York,  in  the 
middle  of  the  nineteenth  century,  by  the 
pursuit  of  a  traffic  which,  in  its  incredible 
infamy,  has  no  name  in  language,  may  well 
excite  the  horror  of  every  man  and  w^oman 
with  a  human  heart  within  their  bosom. 

We  read  of  the  female  poisoner,  and 
shudder;  but  console  ourselves  with  the 
thought,  "These  things  happened  in  the 
dark  ages,  long  ago,  when  knowledge  was 
buried,  and  the  human  heart  was  utterly 
depraved." 

We  read  in  the  daily  papers  the  aimounce- 
ment  of  a  wretch  that,  for  a  certain  price, 
she  will  kill  the  unborn  child, — an  announce- 
ment made  in  plain  terms,  and  paid  for  as 
an  advertisement, — and  we  are  dumb.  It  is 
the  nineteenth  century  :  will  not  future  ages, 
raking  the  advertisement  of  this  infamous 
woman  from  some  dark  comer,  guess  the 
awful  secrets  of  the  nineteenth  century  from 
that  one  infernal  blot  ? 

We  see  a  carriage  drawn  by  blooded 
steeds,  whirling  through  Broadway  ;  its  only 
(123) 


124 


THKOUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 


occupant  a  handsomely*attired  female.  And 
wo  say  to  ourselves,  "  There  goes  the  mur- 
deress of  mother  and  of  the  unborn  child — 
there  goes  the  wretch  who  thrives  by  the 
slaughter  of  lost  womanhood ;  who  owns  a 
splendid  carriage,  a  fine  mansion,  and  a 
magnificent  fortune,  in  the  very  vortex  of  a 
depraved  social  world — there  goes  the  in- 
strument of  the  very  vilest  crime  known 
in  the  annals  of  Hell." 

These  words  none  of  us  dare  say  aloud ; 
we  only  think  of  them  ;  and  we  shudder  as 
we  see  them  written  on  paper, — they  are  so 
horribly  true. 

And  as  we  ask — Why  is  such  a  creature 
needed  in  the  world  ?  Why  does  she  find 
employment  f  Why  do  a  hundred  such  as 
her,  thrive  and  grow  rich  in  the  large  cities  ? 
we  are  forced  to  accept  one  of  these  two 
answers : 

1.  A  bad  social  state,  based  upon  enormous 
wealth  and  enormous  poverty, — a  social  state 
which  gives  to  the  few* the  very  extrava- 
gancies of  luxury,  and  deprives  the  countless 
many  of  the  barest  rights  and  comforts  of 
life, — finds  its  natural  result  in  the  existence 
of  this  Madam  Resimer. 

Or,- 

2.  Human  nature  is  thoroughly  depraved. 
A  certain  portion  of  the  race  are  born  to  be 
damned  in  this  world,  as  well  as  in  the  next. 
Such  creatures  as  Madam  Resimer,  are  but 
the  proper  instruments  of  that  damnation. 

Upon  my  soul,  good  friend,  who  read  this 
book,  these  answers  are  worthy  of  some  mo- 
ments of  attentive  thought. 

Arthur  Dermoyne  stood  in  the  gloom  of 
that  winter  midnight,  — a  midnight  awful 
and  profound,  and  only  deepened  in  its 
solemnity,  by  the  clear,  cold  light  of  the  win- 
tery  stars.  A  thousand  thoughts  flitted  over 
his  brain,  as  he  gazed  upon  the  fatal  house. 
Was  Alice  already  a  tenant  of  that  loathsome 
den  ?  Again  and  again,  he  rejected  the 
thought,  but  still,  it  came  back  upon  him, 
and  crept  like  ice  through  his  veins.  If  she 
was,  indeed,  within  these  walls,  what  might 
be  her  fate  ere  the  morrow's  dawn  ?  Arthur 
could  not  repress  a  cry  of  anguish.  A  vague 
picture  of  a  lost  woman,  put  to  death  in  the 
dark,  by  the  gripe  of  a  fiend  in  human  shape, 
seemed  to  pass  before  him,  like  a  shadow 
from  the  oth«r  world,  I 


I    He  surveyed  the  house.    A  street-lamp, 
which  stood  some  paces  from  it,  shed  a  faint 
I  gleam  over  its  walls,  and  served  to  show, 
I  that  from  cellar  to  garret,  it  was  closed  like 
a  tomb. 

The  wealthy  tenants  of  the  houses  on 
either  hand,  had  evidently  retired  to  their 
beds.  Not  a  gleam  of  light  shone  from  their 
many  windows. 

The  street  was  profoundly  still ;  a  solitary 
footstep  was  heard  in  the  distance  ;  above 
the  roof  was  the  midnight  sky  and  the  win- 
tery  stars. 

Arthur  crossed  the  street. 

"  I  remember  what  the  policemen  told 
me,  who  showed  me  the  way  to  this  place. 
Three  cellar  windows  protected  by  sheet- 
iron  bars  ;  they  are  before  me.  Beyond  these 
windows  a  cellar  filled  with  rubbish ;  then 
a  basement  room,- where  one  of  the  Madam's 
bullies  is  in  waiting,  day  and  night,  ready  to 
do  her  bidding." 

The  Madam  was  provided  with  two  bul- 
lies, whom  she  had  raked  from  the  subterra- 
nean regions  of  New  York.  They  were  men 
of  immense  muscular  strength,  with  the  print 
of  their  depraved  nature  upon  their  brutal 
faces.  One  was  six  feet  two  inches  in  height; 
he  was  known  among  his  familiars  by  the 
succinct  name  of  "  Diek."  He  used  a  dirk- 
knife  in  his  encounters.  The  other,  short, 
bony,  with  broad  chest  and  low  legs,  was 
known  as  "  Slung-Shot."  His  favorite  wea- 
pon was  a  leaden  ball  attached  to  a  cord  by 
net- work,  with  a  loop  for  his  wrist.  One 
blow  with  this  "  Slung-Shot,"  rightly  admin- 
istered, on  the  temple,  would  kill  the  strong- 
est man. 

These  were  the  Madam's  watch-dogs. 
They  formed  the  police  of  the  mansion. 
One  slept  while  the  other  watched,  and  when 
any  little  difficulty  occurred,  they  settled  the 
matter  witJiout  noise.  Whether  they  knew 
all  the  secrets  of  the  Madam's  mansion,  or 
only  regarded  it  as  one  of  the  many  haunts 
of  vulgar  infamy,  which  infest  New  York, 
does  not  yet  appear. 

"  Slung-Shot  or  Dirk,  is  now  on  the  watch, 
in  the  basement  room,  next  the  cellar.  Sup- 
pose I  manage  to  force  the  bars  of  one  of 
these  windows, — I  enter  the  basement  room, 
— am  confronted  by  one  of  the  bullies.  If 
I  escape  the  dirk  and  the  slung-shot,  I  may 


THROUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 


125 


be  handed  over  to  the  police,  and  sent  to 
the  Penitentiary  on  a  charge  of  burglary.  In 
the  latter  case,  I  will  remain  in  the  Tombs 
while  the  25th  of  December  passes,  and 
thus  escape  all  hope  of  participation  in  the 
settlement  of  the  Van  Huyden  estate." 

It  did  not  take  long  for  Dermoyne  to  come 
to  a  determination. 

"  True,  after  all,  Barnhurst  may  be  inno- 
cent, and  Madam  Resimer  may  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  affair.  But  I  cannot  remain 
any  longer  in  this  state  of  harrowing  sus- 
pense.   I  will  to  work, — and  at  once." 

For  a  moment,  he  surveyed  the  street,  and 
you  may  be  sure,  that  his  gaze  was  keen 
and  anxious.  No  one  was  in  sight ;  all  was 
breathlessly  still. 

Arthur  drew  from  beneath  his  cloak  an 
iron  bar,  with  which  he  had  provided  him- 
self. It  was  a  square  bar,  about  two  inches 
in  thickness,  and  as  many  feet  in  length. 
Next,  fixing  his  gaze  on  the  central  window 
of  the  cellar,  he  ascertained  that  it  was  pro- 
tected by  three  upright  bars,  separated  from 
each  other,  by  a  space  of  six  inches.  These 
bars,  scarcely  more  than  an  inch  in  thickness, 
were  inserted  into  solid  pieces  of  granite, 
which  formed  the  top  and  base  of  the  window- 
frame.  Could  he  displace  them  from  their 
sockets,  by  means  of  the  bar  which  he  carried? 

Again,  he  glances  up  and  down  the  street. 
Kot  a  soul  in  sight.  He  cast  an  upward 
glance,  over  the  wall  of  the  house,  —  still 
closed  in  every  shutter,  and  sullen  as  a  vault. 
He  crouched  beside  the  window  and  began 
to  use  his  iron  bar.  It  required  all  the  force 
of  his  almost  supernatural  strength,  to  bend 
the  central  bar,  but  presently  it  was  accom- 
plished. It  yielded  and  was  forced  from  its 
sockets.  Then,  resting  the  iron  bar  which 
he  grasped,  against  the  wall  on  the  left,  he 
forced  the  second  bar  from  its  socket,  and  in 
a  few  minutes,  in  a  similar  manner,  the  third 
yielded  to  the  force  of  his  powerful  sinews. 
The  three  fell  into  the  cellar,  and  produced 
a  crashing  sound  as  they  came  into  contact 
with  some  loose  boards. 

Arthur  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  Grasp- 
ing the  iron  bar,  and  folding  his  cloak  about  ; 
his  left  arm,  he  crept  through  the  window  j 
and  descended  into  the  cellar.  All  was  thick  | 
darkness  there,  but  a  faint  ray  came  from  | 
the  door  which  opened  into  the  basement  j 


room.  Trampling  over  heaps  of  rubbish  and 
loose  piles  of  boards,  Arthur  made  his  way 
toward  the  door,  and  did  not  pause  a  single 
moment,  but  flinging  his  weight  against  its 
rough  boards,  he  forced  the  staple  .which 
secured  it,  and  burst  it  open  with  a  crash. 

Then  his  features  were  fixed,  his  eyes 
flashed,  he  clutched  the  iron  bar,  and  ad- 
vancing one  step  into  the  basement  room, 
stood  ready  for  the  worst. 

A  candle,  burning  fast  toward  its  socket, 
stood  on  a  pine  table,  and  flung  its  uncertain 
light  over  a  small  room,  with  cracked  ceil- 
ing and  rough  walls,  smeared  with  white- 
wash. A  coal  fire  smouldered  in  a  narrow 
grate. 

Slung- Shot  was  there, — not  on  the  watch 
precisely, — but  with  his  brawny  arms  resting 
on  the  table,  and  his  head  bent  on  his  arms. 
He  was  fast  asleep,  and  snoring  vigorously. 
An  empty  brandy  bottle  which  stood  near 
the  light,  explained  the  cause  of  his  sleep. 
Arthur  glanced  at  the  door,  which  opened  on 
the  stairway,  and  then — "Can  I  cross  the 
room  and  open  the  door  without  waking  this 
wretch  ?"  was  his  thought. 

Slung-Shot,  although  by  no  means  tall, 
was  evidently  a  fellow  of  muscle,  as  his 
broad  shoulders,  (inclosed  in  a  red  flannel 
shirt)  and  his  half-bared  arms,  served  to 
show.  His  face  was  buried  against  the  table, 
and  Arthur  could  only  see  the  back  of  his 
head ;  his  hair  closely  cut,  his  long  ears,  and 
the  greasy  locks  which  draggled  in  front  of 
each  ear,  were  disclosed  in  the  flickering 
light. 

Arthur,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation,  ad- 
vanced,— the  boards  creaked  under  his  tread, 
— still  the  ruffian  did  not  move,  but  snored 
on,  in  a  deep,  sonorous  bass.  Arthur  placed 
his  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door — 

The  ruffian  then  moved.  He  raised  his 
sleepy  head,  and  Arthur  beheld  that  brutal 
face,  with  its  low  forehead,  broken  nose  and 
projecting  under-jaw. 

"  S-a-y,"  he  cried,  in  that  peculiar  dialect, 
which,  accompanied  by  an  elongation  of  the 
lower- jaw,  forms  the  patois  of  a  class  of  ruf- 
fians which  infests  the  large  cities,  "what 
de  thunder  you  'bout  ?" 

Arthur  grasped  his  iron  bar,  but  stood 
motionless  as  stone,  awaiting  the  assault  of 
the  ruffian. 


126 


THROUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 


"  Dat  you  Dirk  ?"  continued  Slung-Shot, 
rolling  his  eyes  with  a  drunken  stare ;  "  why 
de  thunder  don't  you  let  a  feller  sleep  ? — " 
and  then  came  a  round  of  oaths,  uttered  in 
that  peculiar  dialect,  with  the  lower-jaw 
elongated  and  the  head  shaking  briskly, 
from  side  to  side.  After  which  Slung-Shot 
sank  to  slfeep  again.  He  had  mistaken  Ar- 
thur for  his  comrade. 

Arthur  lifted  the  latch,  and  in  a  moment 
was  ascendint,-  the  narrow  staircase,  which 
led  to  the  hall  on  the  first  floor.  At  the 
head  of  the  sCair  was  a  door,  which  he 
opened,  and  found  himself  on  a  carpeted  floor, 
but  in  utter  darkness. 

He  could  hear  the  beating  of  his  he^i;,  as 
pausing  in  the  thick  darkness,  he  bent  his 
head  and  listened. 

Not  a  sound  was  heard  throughout  the 
mansion. 

What  should  be  his  next  step  ?  Enter 
the  parlor  on  the  first  floor  or  ascend  the 
stairway  ? 

"  If  Alice  is  concealed  within  these  walls, 
she  must  be  in  one  of  the  rooms  up-stairs," 
he  thought,  and  felt  his  way  toward  the 
staircase.  Presently,  his  hand  encountered 
the  banisters,  and  he  began  cautiously  to 
ascend  to  the  second  floor.  Arrived  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  he  stopped  again  and  list- 
ened :  not  a  sound  was  heard.  Torn  as  he 
was  by  suspense,  the  cold  sweat  started  upon 
his  forehead  :  he  folded  his  cloak  carefully 
around  his  left  arm,  and  grasping  the  iron 
bar  with  his  right  hand,  he  listened  once 
more.  The  house  was  as  soundless,  as 
though  a  human  voice  or  footstep  had  never 
been  heard  within  its  walls. 

At  this  moment  Arthur  was  assailed  by  a 
terrible  doubt  — 

"What  if  it  should  be  all  a  dream?  — 
Barnhurst  may  be  innocent,  and  as  for  Alice, 
she  may  be  at  this  moment,  a  hundred  miles 
away  1  Nay,  this  house  may  be  the  resi- 
dence of  a  peaceful  family,  and  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  Madam  Resimer  or  her 
crimes  —  " 

He  was  shaken  by  the  doubt.  Turning  in 
the  darkness,  he  began  to  descend  the  stairs — 

"  Ha  !  The  ruflfian  in  the  cellar  confirms 
the  story  of  the  policeman  who  led  me  here, 
and  who  stated  that  this  was  the  house  of 
Madam  Resimer;"  this  thought  flashed 


over  him  and  arrested  his  steps.  "  I'll  not 
retreat  until  my  suspicions  are  confirmed  or 
put  to  rest." 

He  turned  £^ain,  and  feeling  his  way  up 
the  stairs,  and  along  the  hall  of  the  second 
floor,  he  began  to  ascend  the  second  stair- 
way. At  the  top  he  paused  and  listened  — 
all  was  silent  —  not  a  whisper,  nor  the  echo 
of  a  sound.  Then  stretching  forth  his  hand 
he  discovered  that  at  a  short  distance  be- 
yond the  stairway,  another  staircase  led  up- 
ward to  the  fourth  floor.  He  also  came  to 
the  conclusion,  that  from  near  the  top  of  the 
stairway,  even  where  he  stood,  a  long  and 
narrow  passage  led  into  some  remote  part  of 
the  mansion.  For  a  moment  he  was  at 
fault.  Should  he  ascend  the  third  stair- 
way to  the  fourth  floor,  or  should  he  traverse 
the  long  and  narrow  passage? 

"  I  will  ascend  to  the  fourth  floor,"  he 
thought,  when  he  was  arrested  by.  a  sound. 

Low,  very  faint,  ambiguous  in  its  charac- 
ter, it  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  extremity 
of  the  passage,  which  branched  from  the 
head  of  the  second  staircase.  Was  it  a 
faint  cry  for  help — a  moan  of  anguish  —  or 
the  echo  of  voices,  muffled  by  thick  cowls  ? 

He  had  no  chance  to  determine. 

For  at  the  very  moment  when  this  sound 
reached  his  ears,  it  was  drowned  by  another 
sound.  The  bell  rang  through  the  house, 
peal  after  peal,  and  died  away  in  a  dismal 
echo.  There  was  a  pause;  it  rang  again,  and 
this  time  more  violently,  as  though  an  angry 
or  frenzied  hand  grasped  the  bell-rope. — 
Another  pause,  and  a  light  flashed  in  the 
face  of  Dermoyne.  It  came  from  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  passage  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  and  was  held  in  the  hand  of  a  woman, 
clad  in  a  flowing  wrapper,  who  advanced 
along  the  passage  with  rapid  strides. — 
Standing  at  the  head  of  the  second  stairway, 
Dermoyne  surveyed  her  as  she  approached, 
and  at  a  glance,  as  she  came  rapidly  toward 
him,  beheld  her  portly  form  and  florid  face. 

That  face  wore  a  look  of  unmistakable 
chagrin. 

"No  time  is  to  be  lost  —  in  a  moment  she 
will  be  here,"  thought  Dermoyne — "  can  it 
be  Madam  Resimer?" 

He  advanced  and  shrouded  himself  in  the 
darkness  of  the  third  stairway.  Near  and 
neaAr  grew  the  sound  of  footsteps  — 


THROUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 


127 


"If  she  looks  this  way,  as  she  descends 
the  stairs,  I  am  discovered,"  and  Dermoyne 
could  distinctly  hear  the  beating  of  his 
heart. 

The  next  moment  the  rustling  of  her 
dress  was  heard  ;  her  heavy  strides  resound- 
ed as  she  advanced ;  and  then  emerging 
from  the  passage,  she  reached  the  top  of  the 
second  stairway.  Her  dress  brushed  Der- 
moyne, as  he  crouched  on  the  first  steps  of 
the  uppermost  stairs  ;  her  face  was  visible  in 
profile  for  a  single  instant. 

"  Curse  this  light,  how  it  flares,  and  curse 
that  bell — will  it  never  cease  ringing?  At 
Btich  a  moment  too, —  " 
•  And  wdthout  once  looking  behind  her,  she 
hurriedly  descended  the  second  stairs.  Der- 
moyne watched  her  tall  form,  with  its  loose 
gown,  flowing  all  about  her  bulky  outlines, 
until  she  turned  the  angle  of  the  stairs  and 
disappeared. 

CHAPTER  11. 

"HERMAN,  YOU  WILL  NOT  DESERT  ME?" 

"  Now  is  my  time,"  muttered  Dermoyne  to 
himself,  and  at  once  he  entered  the  passage, 
which  branched  from  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
and  led  to  the  eastern  wing  of  the  mansion. 
How  his  heart  beat,  how  his  blood  bounded 
in  his  veins,  as  he  drew  near  the  open  door 
at  the  extremity  of  the  passage  1 

On  the  threshold  he  paused — his  form 
shrouded  by  the  darkness,  but  the  light  from 
within  the  room  shining  upon  his  forehead 
• — he  paused  and  took  a  single  glance  at  the 
scene  which  was  disclosed  to  his  vision. 

Never  till  his  dying  hour  shall  he  forget 
that  scene. 

A  small  apartment,  "vvith  windows  shut 
and  sealed  like  the  doors  of  a  sepulcher.  — 
On  a  small  table,  amid  vials  and  surgical  in- 
struments, stands  a  light,  whose  rays  tremble 
over  the  bed,  which  occupied  the  greater 
part  of  the  room.  Above  the  bed,  from  the 
darkly- papered  walls,  smiles  a  picture  of  the 
"Virgin  Mary,  while  beneath,  by  the  folds  of 
the  coverlet,  you  may  trace  the  outlines  of 
a  human  form. 

Beside  the  bed  stands  a  slender  man  dress- 
ed in  black,  with  a  heavy  pair  of  gold  spec-  j 
tuoles  on  his  hooked  nose.    It  is  Corkins, , 
the  familiar  spirit  of  the  Madam,    Corkins,  | 


I  whose  slender  frame,  incased  in  black,  re- 
minds you  of  the  raven,  while  hia  face  with 
top-knot,  gold  spectacles,  ferret-like  eyes,  ana 
pointed  beard,  reminds  you  of  the  owl. 

"Bad!"  mutters  Corkins,  "bad!"  and 
he  gazes  upon  the  occupant  of  the  bed, 
knotting  his  fingers  together  like  a  man  who 
is  exceedingly  perplexed. 

The  bed  and  its  occupant  ?  Ask  us  not 
to  picture  the  full  horror  of  the  sight  which 
Arthur  saw  (from  his  place  of  concealment), 
as  Corkins  gently  drew  the  coverlet  aside. 

"  Alice  !"  he  did  not  pronounce  the  word 
with  his  lips,  but  his  heart  uttered  it — it  was 
echoed  in  the  depths  of  his  soul. 

He  saw  the  pale  face,  and  the  sunny  hair, 
which  fell  in  a  flood  upon  her  bared  shoul- 
ders. He  saw  the  arms  outspread,  with  the 
fingers  trembling  and  working  as  with  the 
impulse  of  a  spasm.  He  saw  the  eyes  which 
opened  with  a  dead  stare,  and  fijsed  vaguely 
upon  the  ceiling,  had  no  look  of  life  in 
their  leaden  glance.  He  saw  the  lips,  which 
were  colorless  and  almost  covered  with 
white  foam.  And  as  the  sufferer  moved  her 
head,  and  flung  it  back  upon  the  pillow, 
he  saw  her  throat — no  longer  white  and 
beautiful — but  with  swollen  veins,  writhing 
with  torture,  ^d  starting  from  the  discolor- 
ed skin. 

Never,  never  until  his  last  hour  can  Ar- 
thur forget  that  sight. 

And  poor  Alice,  writhing  thus  between 
life  and  death,  talked  to  herself  in  a  voice 
husky  and  faint,  and  said  certain  words  that 
made  Arthur's  blood  gather  in  a  flood  about 
his  heart : 

"Herman,  you  will  not  desert  me!"  she 
said,  and  then  while  the  foam  was  on  her 
lips,  she  babbled  of  her  father  and  home — 
writhing  all  the  while  in  every  nerve  and 
vein. 

Arthur  entered  the  room.  Corkins  turned 
and  beheld  him,  and  uttered  a  cry  of  fright. 
For  at  that  moment  Arthur's  face  was  not  a 
pleasant  face  for  any  man  to  look  upon,  much 
less  Corkins.  .  And  the  iron  bar  which  Ar- 
thur held  in  his  clenched  hand,  taken  into 
connection  with  tlie  look  on  his  face,  reminded 
Corkins  of  stories  which  he  had  read — stories 
which  told  of  living  men,  bruised  suddenly  to 
death  by  such  a  hand  and  such  an  iron  bar. 
Corkins,  therefore,  uttered  a  cry  of  fright,  and 


128 


THROUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 


in  his  terror  shook  his  gold  spectacles  from 
his  parrot  nose. 

"  Down,"  said  Arthur,  in  a  low  voice,  "on 
your  knees," — he  pointed  to  a  nook  of  the 
room,  between  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  the 
wall.  "Stay  there  with  your  face  to  the 
wall." 

Corkins  obeyed.  Trembling  to  the  corner, 
he  sank  on  his  knees,  and  turned  his  face 
away  from  the  door  and  turned  toward  the 
wall,  there  was  such  a  persuasive  eloquence 
in  Arthur's  look. 

Then  Arthur,  still  clutching  the  iron  bar, 
drew  near  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  gazed 
upon  Alice. 

Stretching  forth  her  arms,  and  opening 
and  closing  her  little  hands ;  flinging  back 
her  head,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  same 
point  of  the  ceiling,  no  matter  how  she 
writhed — babbling  with  foaming  lips  about 
her  father  and  her  home, — it  was  one  of  the 
saddest  sights  that  ever  man  beheld. 

Arthur  could  not  stand  it.  He  turned  his 
face  away,  and  there  was  a  choking  sensation 
in  his  throat,  and -a  painful  heaving  of  his 
chest.  His  eyeballs  were  hot  and  tearless. — 
He  would  have  given  his  life  to  shed  a  sin- 
gle tear. 

But  that  moment  of  intolerable  anguish 
was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  footsteps 
resounding  from  the  lower  part  of  the  man- 
sion. Madam  Resimer  was  returning  to  the 
room  of  Alice. 

Arthur  at  once  shrank  into  the  comer 
where  Corkins  knelt,  and  touched  the  crea- 
ture with  his  foot  by  way  of  warning.  Then 
placing  himself  against  the  wall  in  such  a 
manner  that  he  could  not  be  seen  until  the 
Madam  entered  the  room,  he  awaited  her 
return. 

Her  footsteps  are  on  the  stairs,  and  pres- 
ently they  are  heard  in  the  passage.  Arthur, 
standing  bolt  upright  against  the  wall,  with 
the  trembling  Corkins  at  his  feet,  heard 
the  rustling  of  her  dress,  as  she  came  brush- 
ing along,  with  her  heavy  stride.  Then  he 
heard  her  voice — she  was  speaking  to  some 
one  who  accompanied  her. 

"  There  are  two,"  he  muttered,  and  bent 
his  head  to  listen.  He  could  distinguish  her 
words  : 

"  What  a  foolish  fancy ! "  this  was  the 
voice  of  the  Madam,  "  to  think  that  any 


I  one  could  gain  admittance  to  my  house 
against  my  will.  Why,  my  dear,  the  idea 
makes  me  laugh." 

"  Yes,  but  he's  such  a  desperate  ruffian," 
answered  a  second  voice. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Rev.  Herman  Barn- 
hurst. 

CHAPTER  ni. 

HERMAN,  ARTHUR,  ALICE. 

"  Oh  !  my  God,  I  thank  thee,"  muttered 
Arthur,  and  clutched  the  iron  bar  and 
crouched  closer  to  the  wall. 

And  ere  a  moment  passed,  the  Madam 
entered  the  room,  followed  by  Bamhurst. 
She  held  the  light,  and  he  advanced  toward 
the  bed. 

"  It  looks  rather  bad,"  cried  Bamhurst,  as 
he  caught  sight  of  the  face  of  Alice. 

"  Why,  where  has  Corkins  gone  ?"  cried 
the  Madam,  and  turning  abmptly  she  sought 
for  Corkins,  and  uttered  a  shriek.  At  the 
same  instant  Bamhurst  raised  his  eyes  from 
the  face  of  Alice,  and  fell  back  against  the 
wall,  as  though  a  bullet  had  pierced  his 
temple. 

They  had  at  the  same  instant  discovered 
Dermoyne,  who,  motionless  as  stone,  stood 
against  the  wall,  beside  the  door,  his  arms 
folded,  and  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast. 
Thus,  with  his  head  drooped  on  his  breast, 
he  raised  his  eyes  and  silently  surveyed  them 
both,  and  with  the  same  glance. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken.  The  Madam, 
unable  to  support  herself,  sank  on  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  and  Bamhurst,  staggered  to  his 
feet  again,  looked  around  the  room  with  a 
visage  stamped  with  guilt  and  terror. 

Arthur  quietly  advanced  a  step,  and  closed 
the  door  of  the  room.  Then  he  locked  it 
and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  the  Madam, 
the  color  rushing  into  her  face. 

"No  noise,"  whispered  Arthur,  "unless 
indeed," — and  he  smiled  in  a  way  which  she 
understood, — "  unless,  indeed,  you  mean  to 
alarm  the  neighborhood,  and  bring  the  police 
into  the  room.  Would  you  like  to  have  the 
police  examine  your  house  ?" 

The  Madam  bit  her  red  lip,  but  did  not 
answer.  Arthur  passed  her,  and  approached 
the  Rev.  Herman  Barnhiirst. 


THROUGH  THE 

Nay,  don't  be  afraid;  I  will  not  hurt  you," 
he  whispered,  as  the  clergyman  stretched 
forth  his  hands  and  retreated  toward  the  wall. 
**  Come,  take  courage,  man, — look  there  !" 
He  pointed  to  the  face  of  Alice. 
Herman,  ashy  pale,  and  shaking  in  every 
limb,  followed  the  movement  of  Arthur's 
hand,  but  did  not  utter  a  word. 

"A  'man  of  your  cloth'  to  be  'sus- 
pected '  —  eh,  my  friend  ?"  and  Arthur, 
laughed.  "A  minister  of  THE  Church, 
to  be  suspected  of  seduction  and  of  murder  ? 
Is  it  not  a  lying  tongue  that  dare  charge  you, 
Reverend  sir,  with  such  crimes  ? 

Here,  poor  Alice,  writhing  in  the  bed, 
spoke  a  faint  word  about  father,  and  home. 

Barnhurst,  cringing  against  the  wall,  his 
smooth  complexion  changed  to  a  livid  pale- 
ness, muttered  an  incoherent  word  about 
"  reparation." 

*'  Oh,  you  shall  make  reparation, — never 
fear ;  you  shall  make  reparation,"  whispered 
Dermoyne,  his  eyes  fairly  blazing  with  light. 
"And  you  visited  her  father's  house  as  a 
minister  of  God.  She  heard  you  preach  in 
the  church,  and  you  talked  to  her  in  her 
home.  What  words  you  said,  I  know  not ; 
but  some  forty- eight  hours  ago  you  took  her 
from  her  home ;  but  a  few  hours  have 
passed  since  then.  The  father  lies  a  mangled 
corpse  somewhere  between  this  house  and 
Philadelphia ;  and  Alice,  the  daughter,  is 
before  you.  Are  you  not  proud  of  your 
work,  my  reverend  friend  ?" 

Herman's  eye  glanced  from  the  ominous 
face  of  Dermoyne,  and  then  to  the  iron  bar 
which  he  held  in  his  clenched  hand, — 
"  You  will  not — kill — me  ?"  he  gasped. 
Arthur  was  silent.  The  veins  upon  his 
forehead  were  swollen ;  his  teeth  were 
locked  ;  his  eyes,  deep  sunken  under  his 
down- drawn  brows,  emitted  a  steady  and 
sinister  light.    He  was  thinking. 

"  Kill  you  ?"  he  said,  in  a  measured  voice, 
which  seemed  torn,  word  by  word,  through 
his  clenched  teeth,  from  his  heart.  "  Oh,  if 
I  could  believe  your  creed  —  that  eternal 
vengeance  is  the  only  future  punishment  for 
earthly  crimes  —  why,  I  would  kill  you, 
before  you  could  utter  another  word.  Do 
you  believe  that  creed?  No — wretch  !  you 
do  not.  You  have  but  preached  it  as  a  part 
of  that  machinery  which  manufactures  your 


SILENT  CITY.  129 

salary.  But  now,  wretch  !  as  you  stand  by 
the  death-bed  of  your  victim,  with  the  face 
of  her  avenger  before  you,  now  search  your 
heart,  and  answer  me — Do  you  not  begin  to 
feel  that  there  is  a  God  ?" 

It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  poor  wretch  cringe 
against  the  wall,  supporting  himself  with  his 
hands,  which  he  placed  behind  his  back, 
while  his  head  slowly  sunk,  and  his  eyes 
were  riveted  to  the  face  of  Dermoyne. 

"You  will  not  kill  me,"  he  faltered  ;  and, 
with  his  left  hand,  tugged  at  his  white 
cravat,  for  there  was  a  choking  sensation  at 
his  throat. 

As  for  the  Madam,  who  stood  at  the  back 
of  Dermoyne,  she  began  to  recover  some 
portion  of  her  self-possession,  as  a  hope 
flashed  upon  her  mind  :  "  The  handle  of  the 
bell  is  behind  Barnhurst,"  she  muttered  to 
himself ;  "  if  he  would  only  touch  it,  it 
would  resound  in  the  basement,  and  call 
Slung-Shot  to  our  aid." 

And  with  flashing  eyes,  the  Madam  gazed 
over  Dermoyne's  shoulder,  watching  every 
movement  of  the  clergyman,  and  hoping 
that  even  in  his  fright,  he  might  touch  the 
handle  of  the  bell.  That  bell  communi- 
cated with  the  basement  room ;  one  move- 
ment of  the  handle,  and  Slung-Shot  would 
be  summoned  to  the  scene. 

However,  as  Barnhurst  cringed  against  the 
wall,  his  hands  strayed  all  around  the 
handle  of  the  bell,  but  did  not  touch  it. 

At  this  crisis,  however,  the  Madam  form- 
ing suddenly  a  bold  resolution,  strode  across 
the  floor  and  placed  her  bulky  form  between 
Dermoyne  and  the  clergyman. 

"  What  do  you  want  here,  any  how  ?"  she 
said,  tossing  her  head  and  placing  her  arms 
a-kimbo.  "  You  are  neither  the  brother  nor 
the  husband  of  this  girl.  Supposin'  you 
was,  what  have  you  to  complain  of  ?  Haven't 
I  treated  her  like  my  own  child  ?  Yes,  I've 
been  a  mother  to  her — and  that  is  a  fact." 

Dermoyne,  for  a  moment,  paused  to  ad- 
mire the  cool  impudence  which  stamped  the 
florid  visage  of  the  madam.  Her  chin  pro- 
jected, her  nose  upturned,  and  her  nether 
lip  protruded,  she  stood  there  in  her  flowing 
wrapper,  with  a  hand  on  each  side  of  her 
waist. 

"  Look  there,"  he  said  quietly,  and  pointed 
to  the  bed,  where  the  poor  girl  was  stretched 


130 


THROUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY". 


in  her  agony;  her  hands  quivering  and  her 
lips  white  with  foam  :  "  When  that  poor 
child  entered  your  house,  she  was  in  the 
enjoyment  of  good  health.  What  is  she 
now  ?  Shall  I  go  forth  from  this  place  and 
bring  a  physician  to  testify  as  to  the  nature 
of  your  TnotJierly  treatment  ? 

The  Madam  retreated  from  the  gaze  of  the 
young  man,  and  felt  the  force  of  his  words. 

Too  well  she  knew  what  verdict  a  physi- 
cian would  pass  upon  her  treatment  of  the 
young  girl. 

"The  bell-handle  is  behind  you,"  she 
whispered,  as  she  passed  the  cringing  Barn- 
hurst  He  did  not  seem  to  heed  her ;  but 
the  moment  that  she  passed  him  and 
resumed  her  former  place,  he  fixed  his 
stupefied  gaze  once  more  upon  the  visage 
of  Dermoyne. 

As  for  Dermoyne,  for  a  moment  he  stood 
buried  in  profound  thought.  The  clergyman 
trembled  closer  to  the  wall  as  he  remarked 
the  livid  paleness  of  Arthur's  face, — the 
peculiar  light  in  Arthur's  eyes. 

Dermoyne,  after  a  moment,  advanced  and 
extended  his  hand  —  "  Come,"  he  said,  and 
sought  to  grasp  Barnhurst's  hands.  But,  shud- 
dering and  half  dead  with  fright,  Herman 
crouched  away  from  the  extended  hand, — 
crouched  and  cringed  away  as  though  he 
would  bury  himself  in  the  veiy  wall. 

"Come,"  again  repeated  Dermoyne,  his 
voice  changed  and  husky.  "  Come  !"  He 
grasped  the  hand  of  th«  clergyman  and 
dragged  him  to  the  bedside.  "Oh,  look 
upon  that  sight !"  he  groaned  as  the  tortured 
girl  writhed  before  them — "  Look  upon  that 
sight,  and  tell  me,  what  fiend  of  hell  ever, 
even  in  thought,  planned  a  deed  like  this  ?" 

"  Don't  kill  me,  don't,  don't ! "  faltered 
Hermaru 

"This  is  a  strange  meeting,"  continued 
Dermoyne,  with  a  look  that  made  Herman's 
blood  run  cold  ;  "here  we  are  together,  you 
and  I  and  Alice !  I  that  loved  her  better 
than  life,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  have 
called  her  by  the  sacred  name  of  wife.  You, 
that  without  loving  her  or  caring  for  her, 
save  as  the  instrument  of  your  brutal  appetite, 
have  made  her  what  she  is, — have  made  her 
what  she  is,  and  brought  her  here  to  die  in 
a  dark  comer,  something  worse  than  the 
ueath  of  a  dog.    And  Alice,  poor  Alice, 


who  saw  you  first  in  the  pulpit,  and  then 
listened  to  you  and  yielded  to  you  in  the 
home, — her  father's  home, — Alice  lies  be- 
fore you  now.    Hark  ! " 

The  poor  girl  stretched  forth  her  hands, 
and  with  the  foam  still  white  upon  her 
livid  lips,  she  said,  in  her  wandering  way — 

"  Oh !  Herman,  dear  Herman !  it  was  not 
fatlier  that  was  hurt,  was  it  ?  Oh  !  are  you 
sure,  are  you  sure  ?  "  And  then  came  wan- 
dering words  about  father,  Herman,  home, 
and — her  lost  condition.  There  was  some- 
thing too,  about  returning  to  father  and  ask- 
ing his  forgiveness  when  the  danger  was 
over. 

"And  you  desire  her  death."  In  his 
agony,  as  he  uttered  these  words,  Arthur 
clutched  Herman  with  a  gripe  that  forced  a 
groan  from  his  lips.  "You  who  have 
brought  her  to  this, — he  pointed  to  the 
bed, — while  I  desire  her  to  live  ;  I,  that  by 
her  death  will  become  the  sole  inheritor  of 
her  father's  fortime." 

This  was  a  revelation  that  astounded  Her- 
man, half  dead  as  he  was,  with  terror. 

"  The  sole  inheritor  of  her  father's  for- 
tune ! "  he  echoed. 

At  this  crisis,  the  Madam  darted  forward. 
Arthur  saw  her  hand  extended  toward  the 
handle  of  the  bell. 

"  Oh !  ring  by  all  means,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  ring,  my  dear  Madam  ;  summon  your  bul- 
lies ;  we  will  have  as  much  noise  as  possi- 
ble,— perchance,  a  fight !  And  then  the 
police  will  come  and  examine  the  little 
mysteries  of  your  mansion.  Will  you  not 
ring  ?  " 

The  Madam's  hand  dropped  to  her  side, 
and  she  slunk  back  to  her  former  position, 
her  florid  face  impressed  with  an  expression 
which  was  not,  altogether,  one  of  serenity 
or  joy. 

"  You  wondered,  to-night,  why  Mr.  Bur- 
ney  permitted  the  poor  shoemaker  to  visit 
his  house.  Let  me  enlighten  you  a  little. 
Not  many  years  ago,  an  unknown  mechanic 
called  upon  the  rich  merchant,  in  his  library, 
and  proved  to  the  merchant's  satisfaction, 
that  he, — the  poor  mechanic, — had,  in  his 
possession,  certain  papers  which  established 
the  fact  that  the  immense  wealth  of  Mr. 
Bumey  had  been  obtained  by  a  gross  fraud ; 
a  fraud  which,  in  a  court  of  law,  would 


THROUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 


181 


disclose  itself  in  the  two-fold  shape  oi perjury 
and  forgery.  The  father  of  the  mechanic 
was  the  victim ;  Bumey,  the  criminal ;  the 
victim  had  died  poor  and  broken-hearted ; 
but  in  the  hands  of  the  criminal,  the 
property  so  illy-gotten,  had  swelled  into  an 
immense  fortune.  It  was  the  son  of  the 
victim  who,  having  lived  through  a  friend- 
less orphanage,  now  came  to  Mr.  Burney 
and  proved  that  at  any  moment  he  might 
involve  the  rich  merchant  in  disgrace  and 
ruin." 

"Impossible!"  ejaculated  Barnhurst. 

"  The  merchant  made  large  offers  to  the 
mechanic  to  obtain  his  silence, — believing  in 
the  true  mercantile  way,  that  every  man  has 
his  price,  he  offered  a  good  round  sum,  and 
doubled  it  the  next  moment, — but  in  vain. 
The  image  of  his  broken-hearted  father  was 
before  the  mechanic, — he  could  not  banish 
it, — he  had  but  one  purpose,  and  that  was, 
to  bring  the  rich  man  to  utter  ruin.  This 
purpose  was  strong  in  his  heart,  when  scorn- 
ing all  the  offers  of  the  merchant,  he  rose 
from  his  seat  and  moved  toward  the  door. 
But  at  the  door  his  purpose  was  changed. 
There  he  was  confronted  by  the  face  of  a 
happy,  sinless  girl, — a  girl  with  all  the 
heauty  of  a  happy,  sinless  heart,  written 
tipon  her  young  face.  At  the  sight,  the 
mechanic  relented.  Maddened  by  the  thirst 
for  a  full  and  bitter  revenge,  he  could  de- 
stroy the  father,  but  he  had  not  the  heart 
to  destroy  the  father  of  that  sinless  girl. 
For, — do  you  hear  me, — it  was  Alice, — it 
was  Alice, — Alice." 

The  long-restrained  agony  burst  forth  at 
last.  "With  her  name  upon  his  lips,  he 
paused, — he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  Alice,  Alice,  who  lies  before  you  now  ! " 
He  raised  his  face  again  ;  it  was  distorted  by 
agony  ;  it  was  bathed  in  tears. 

The  clergyman  fell  on  his  knees.  * 

"Don't  harm  me,"  he  faltered,  "I  will 
make  reparation." 

"  Up  !  up !  don't  kneel  to  me,"  shrieked 
Dermoyne,  and  he  dragged  the  miserable 
culprit  to  his  feet.  "  There's  no  manner  of 
kneeling  or  praying  between  heaven  and 
hell,  that  can  help  you,  if  that  poor  girl 
dies.  I  spared  her  father  for  her  sake,  (and 
to  make  my  silence  perpetual,  he  made  a 
wll,  in  which  he  names  me  as  his  sole  heir, 


in  case  of  his  daughter's  death) ;  I  spared 
her  father  for  her  sake,  and  can  you  think 
that  I  will  spare  you, — you  who  have 
brought  her  to  a  shame  and  death  like 
this?" 

He  pointed  to  the  bed,  and  once  more  the 
poor  girl,  writhing  in  pain,  uttered,  in  a  low, 
pleading  voice,  "Herman,  Herman,  do  not, 
oh  !  do  not  desert  me  ! " 

Dermoyne,  at  a  rapid  glance,  surveyed 
the  culprit  cringing  against  the  wall, — the 
florid  Madam,  who  stood  apart,  her  face 
manifesting  undeniable  chagrin, — and  then 
his  gaze  rested  upon  Corkins,  who,  kneeling 
in  the  comer,  seemed  to  have  been  suddenly 
stricken  dumb.  And  as  he  took  that  rapid 
glance,  his  eyes  flashed,  his  face  grew  paler, 
his  bosom  heaved,  and  a  world  of  thought 
rushed  through  his  brain  ;  and,  in  a  mo- 
ment, he  had  decided  upon  his  course. 

He  drew  near  to  the  Madam  :  she  could 
not  meet  the  look  which  he  fixed  upon  her 
face. 

"To-morrow  morning,  at  ten  o'clock,  I 
will  return  to  this  house,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice  ;  "  I  hold  you  responsible  for  the  life 
of  this  poor  girl.  ISTay,  do  not  speak ;  not 
a  word  from  your  accursed  lips.  Remem- 
ber ! — he  drew  a  step  neamer, — to-morrow 
morning,  at  ten  o'clock,  and — I  hold  you 
responsible  for  the  life  of  Alice  Burney." 

The  Madam  quailed  before  his  glance  ; 
for  once,  her  florid  face  grew  pale.  "But 
how  will  you  obtain  entrance  into  my 
house  ? "  she  thought ;  and  a  faint  smile 
crossed  her  countenance. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    RED  BOOK. 

Dermoyne  flung  his  cloak  over  his  arm, 
drew  his  cap  over  his  forehead,  and  grasped 
the  iron  bar  with  his  right  hand. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
to  Barnhurst.  He  drew  the  key  from  his 
pocket,  and  led  the  way  to  the  door.  As 
though  fascinated  by  his  look,  Herman  fol- 
lowed him, — followed  him  trembling  and 
with  terror  stamped  on  every  line  of  his 
face. 

"At  ten  o'clock,  to-morrow  morning,  re- 
member ! "  said  Dermoyne,  turning  his  face 
over  his  shoulder.    He  turned  the  key  in 


132 


THKOUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 


the  lock,  and  stood  upon  the  threshold. 
"Come  with  me,"  he  said,  quietly,  to  Barn- 
hurst.  "  Nay,  take  the  light  and  walk  be- 
fore me." 

Herman,  with  a  quivering  hand,  seized  a 
lighted  lamp  and  led  the  way  from  the 
room,  along  the  passage.  He  dared  not 
turn  his  head.  He  heard  Dermoyne's  foot- 
steps at  his  back,  and  shook  with  fright. 
"  Does  he  intend  to  murder  me  ?  "  and  then 
he  thought  of  the  iron  bar ;  of  the  strong 
hand  of  Dermoyne  ;  and  of  his  own  de- 
fenseless head. 

"  Herman,  don't,  don't  desert  me,"  mut- 
tered Alice,  in  her  delirium,  as  they  crossed 
the  threshold. 

Dermoyne  turned  and  saw  the  fixed  eyes, 
the  sunny  hair,  the  lips  white  with  foam  ; 
saw  the  writhing  form  and  the  hands  clasped 
madly  over  the  half-bared  bosom  ;  and  then 
he  looked  no  more. 

Along  the  passage,  Herman  led  the  way 
and  down  the  stairs,  Dermoyne  following 
silently  at  his  heels.  Thus  they  descended 
to  the  second  floor. 

"  The  Madam  has  a  room  where  she  keeps 
her  papers  and  arranges  her  most  important 
affairs.    Conduct  me  there."  ♦ 

And  Herman,  scarce  knowing  what  he 
did,  led  the  way  to  the  small  room  in  the 
rear  of  the  second  floor, — the  small  room  in 
which  we  first  beheld  the  Madam.  He  en- 
tered, followed  by  Dermoyne,  who  carefully 
closed  the  door,  and  then,  at  a  glance,  sur- 
veyed the  place.  It  looked  the  same  as 
when  we  first  beheld  the  Madam.  The 
shaded  lamp  stood  on  the  desk,  describing  a 
brief  circle  of  light  around  it,  while  the  rest 
of  the  place  was  vailed  in  twilight.  On  the 
desk  was  the  seal  and  the  pearl-handled  pen, 
and  beside  it,  was  the  capacious  arm-chair. 

"Come  here,"  said  Arthur,  still  in  that 
low  voice,  but  with  the  face  unnaturally 
pale,  and  the  eyes  flashing  with  steady  and 
ominous  light ;  and  he  led  the  way  to  the 
desk.  Barnhurst  obeyed  him  without  a 
word. 

"To-morrow,  at  ten  o'clock,  we  will  re- 
turn to  this  mansion,"  said  Dermoyne,  fixing 
his  eyes  upon  the  affrighted  visage  of  Barn- 
hurst. "We  will  return  together,  and  if 
Alice  yet  lives,  we  will  go  away  together ; 
but,"  he  laid  his  right  hand  upon  the  fore- 


head of  the  wretch, — or  rather  placed  his 
thumb  upon  the  right  temple,  and  his 
fingers  on  the  left, — "  but,  if  Alice  is  dead, 
I  will  kill  you  at  her  bedside." 

There  was  a  determination  in  his  tone, — 
in  his  look,  —  nay,  in  the  very  pressure  of 
the  hand  which  touched  Barnhurst's  fore- 
head ;  which  gave  a  force  to  his  brief  words, 
that  no  pen  can  depict. 

Barnhurst  fell  on  his  knees,  and  his  head 
sank  oj^  his  breast.  He  had  no  power  to 
frame  a  word.  He  appeared  conscious  that 
he  was  in  the  hands  of  his  fate. 

"  Get  up,  get  up,  my  friend  !  "  and  Arthur 
raised  him  from  his  knees  and  placed  him 
in  a  chair.  (Now  well  we  know  that  it 
would  have  been  more  in  accordance  with 
the  rules  provided  for  novel  writers,  for 
Arthur  to  have  said,  "  Arise  !  villain  ! "  but 
as  he  simply  said,  "Get  up,  my  friend!" 
applying  a  singular  emphasis  to  the  italicized 
words  :  we  feel  bound  to  record  his  words 
just  as  he  spoke  them). 

"  I  have  a  few  words  to  say  to  you,"  said 
Arthur ;  "  there's  no  use  of  your  shuddering 
when  I  speak  to  you,  and  of  crying  when 
I  touch  you.  You  must  listen  to  me  and 
listen  with  all  your  senses  about  you.  Why, 
you  were  courageous  enough  to  blaspheme 
God,  when  you  used  his  religion  as  the  in- 
strument of  that  poor  girl's  ruin  :  don't  be 
afraid  of  me." 

"When  you  leave  this  place,  my  friend,  I 
will  go  with  you.  I  will  put  no  restraint 
upon  your  actions ;  you  can  go  where  you 
please,  but  wherever  you  go,  I  will  go  with 
you.  I  will  not  lose  sight  of  you,  until  the 
life  or  death  of  Alice  Burney  is  assured. 
Yes,  you  can  go  where  you  please,  talk  with 
whom  you  please,  sleep,  eat,  drink  where 
it  suits  you,  but  everywhere  /  will  go  with 
you.  We  will  be  together,  side  by  side, 
until  the  life  or  the  death  of  Alice  is  cer- 
tain,— together,  always  together,  like  twin 
souls,  —  do  you  understand,  my  friend  ? 
Until  we  are  assured  of  the  fate  of  Alice, 
I  will  be  your  shadow?  Do  you  compre- 
hend ?" 

Herman  did  comprehend.  The  full  force 
of  Arthur's  determination  crowded  upon  him, 
impressing  every  fiber  of  his  soul. 

"  i^o, — no, — this  cannot  be,"  he  faltered, — 
"  If  you  must  wreak  your  vengeance  on  nie> 


THEOUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 


133 


kill  me  at  once.  But,  to  be  thus  accompa- 
nied, I  will  not  consent — " 

"  Kill  you  ?"  and  there  was  a  sad  smile  on 
Dermoyne's  face  ;  "  do  you  suppose  that  the 
mere  act  of  physical  death  can  atone  for  the 
moral  and  physical  death  of  poor  Alice  ? 
You  commit  a  wrong,  that  is  murder  in  a 
sense,  that  the  basest  physical  murder  can 
never  equal ;  and  you  think  the  sacrifice  of 
your  life  will  atone  for  that  wrong  ?  Faugh  ! 
If  Alice  dies,  I  will  kill  you, — be  assured  of 
that — I  will  crush  the  miserable  life  which 
now  beats  within  your  brain, — but,  first,  I 
will  make  you  die  a  thousand  deaths — I  will 
kill  you  in  soul  as  well  as  in  body — for  every 
throb  which  you  have  made  her  suffer,  you 
shall  render  an  exact,  a  fearful  account — yes, 
before  I  kill  your  miserable  body,  I  will  kill 
yoit  in  reputation,  in  all  that  makes  life  dear, 
in  everything  that  you  hold  sacred,  or  that 
those  with  whom  you  are  connected  by  all 
or  any  ties,  hold  sacred.  To  do  this,  I  must 
Tcnow  all  about  you,  and  to  know  all  about  you, 
I  must  go  with  you  and  be  your  shadow." 

"  Oh,  this  is  infernal !"  groaned  Barnhurst, 
dropping  his  hands  helplessly  on  his  knees, 
while  his  head  sank  back  against  the  chair, 
"  Have  you  no  mercy  ?" 

"A  preacher  appeared  as  a  demi-god,  to 
the  eyes  of  a  sinless  girl, — clad  in  the  light 
of  religion,  he  appeared  to  her  as  something 
more  than  mortal  —  aware  of  this  fact,  he 
passed  from  the  pulpit  where  she  heard  him 
preach  to  her  father's  home,  and  there  dishon- 
ored her.  When  her  dishonor  was  complete, 
and  a  second  life  throbbed  within  her,  so  far 
from  thinking  of  hiding  her  shame  under  the 
mantle  of  an  honorable  marriage,  he  calmly 
plotted  the  murder  of  his  victim  and  her  un- 
born child.  And  this  preacher  now  crouches 
before  his  executioner,  and  falters,  "Have 
you  no  mercy  ?'  " 

"But  I  could  not  marry  her,"  groaned 
Barnhurst,  "  it  was  impossible  !  impossible  !" 

"  Why  ?" 

Barnhurst  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  but 
did  not  answer. 

"You  killed  her  to  save  your  reputation,** 
■whispered  Arthur,  "and  now  I  have  your 
life  and  reputation  in  my  grasp.  In  the 
name  of  Alice,  I  will  use  my  power.  Come  ! 
Let  us  be  going.    I  am  ready  to  attend  you." 

He  took  the  hat  and  cloak  of  the  clergy- 


man, from  a  chair,  (where  Barnhurst  had  left 
them  before  he  ascended-  to  the  chamber  of 
Alice)  and  exclaimed  with  a  low  bow — 
"  Your  hat  and  cloak,  sir.  I  am  ready.'* 
Barnhurst  rose,  trembling  and  livid, — he 
placed  the  hat  upon  his  sleeked  hair,  and 
wound  the  cloak  about  his  angular  form. 
For  a  moment  his  coward  nature  seemed 
stirred,  by  the  extremity  of  his  despair,  into 
something  like  courage.  His  eyes  (the  dark 
pupils  of  which  you  will  remember  covered 
each  eyeball)  flashed  madly  from  his  hlmide 
visage,  and  he  gazed  from  side  to  side,  as  if 
in  search  of  some  deadly  weapon.  At  that 
moment  he  was  prepared  for  combat  and  for 
murder. 

Dermoyne  caught  his  eye  :  never  lunatic 
cowered  at  the  sight  of  his  keeper,  as  Barn- 
hurst before  Dermoyne. 

"It  wont  do.  You  haven't  the  'pluck,'" 
sneered  Arthur, — "if  it  was  a  weak  girl, 
there's  no  knowing  what  you  might  do ; 
but  as  it  is  a  man  and  an — executioner." 

"I  am  ready,"  was  all  that  Bamhiu^t 
could  reply. 

"  One  moment,  dear  friend,  and  I  '11  be 
with  you,"  as  he  spoke,  Dermoyne  advanced 
toward  the  Madam's  Desk.  "  /  must  have  a 
PLEDGE  hefore  I  go.'" 

Before  the  preacher  had  time  to  analyze 
the  meaning  of  these  words,  Dermoyne,  with 
one  blow  of  the  iron  bar,  had  forced  the  lock 
of  the  Madam's  desk.  He  raised  the  lid  and 
the  light  fell  upon  packages  of  letters,  neatly 
folded,  and  upon  a  large  book,  square  in  shape 
and  bound  in  red  morocco. 

"  The  red  book !"  the  words  were  forced 
from  Barnhurst's  lips,  as  he  saw  Arthur  raise 
the  volume  to  the  light  and  rapidly  examine 
its  contents.  The  red  book  !  Well  he 
knew  the  character  of  that  singular  volume  ! 

"  Yes,  this  will  do,"  said  Arthur,  as  he 
placed  the  book  under  his  cloak.  "  I  wanted 
a  pledge, — that  is  to  say,  a  sure  hold  upon 
the  Madam  and  her  friends.  And  I  have 
one !" 

He  took  the  clergyman  by  the  arm  and 
they  went  forth  together  from  the  private 
chamber, — the  holy  place — of  the  Madam. 
Went  forth  together,  and  descending  the 
stairs,  passed  in  the  darkness  along  the  hall. 
The  key  was  in  the  lock  of  the  front  door. 
Arthur  turned  it,  and  in  a  moment,  thej 


134 


THEOUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 


passed  together  over  the  threshold  of  that 
mansion  of  crime,  and  stood  in  the  light  of 
the  wintery  stars. 

"  Who,"  whispered  Arthur,  as  side  by  side, 
and  arm  in  arm,  they  went  down  the  dark 
street,  "  who  to  see  us  walk  so  lovingly  toge- 
ther, would  imagine  the  real  nature  of  those 
relations  which  bind  us  together  ?" 

He  felt  Barnhurst  shudder  as  he  held  him 
to  his  side — 

"  The  red  book !"  ejaculated  the  clergy- 
man, with  accent  hard  to  define,  whether  of 
fear,  or  wonder,  or  of  horror. 

And  by  the  light  of  the  midnight  stars, 
they  went  down  the  dark  street  together. 

CHAPTER  V. 
"what  shall  we  do  with  her?" 

Scarcely  had  the  echo  of  the  front  door, 
ceased  to  resound  through  the  mansion,  when 
the  Madam  entered  the  holy  place  from 
which  Arthur  and  Herman  had  just  departed. 
Her  step  was  vigorous  and  firm,  as  she 
crossed  the  threshold  ;  her  face  flashed  with 
mingled  rage  and  triumph. 

"  He  will  return  to-morrow  at  ten  o'clock !" 
she  cried,  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter, 
which  shook  her  voluminous  bust, — "  there's 
two  ways  of  tellin'  that  story,  my  duck." 
(The  Madam,  as  in  all  her  vivacious  mo- 
ments, grew  metaphorical.)  "  Catch  a  wea- 
sel asleep !  Fool  who  with  your  tin  *  fip !' 
I  guesnU  haven't  been  about  in  the  world 
all  this  while,  to  be  out-generaled  by  a  snip 
of  a  boy  like  that !" 

Louder  laughed  the  Madam,  until  her 
bust  shook  again — and  in  the  midst  of  her 
calm  enjoyment  she  saw — the  desk  and  the 
broken  lock.  Her  laughter  stopped  abrupt- 
ly. She  darted  forward,  like  a  tigress  rush- 
ing on  her  prey.  She  seized  the  lamp  and 
raised  the  lid,  and  saw  the  contents  of  the 
desk, — packages  of  letters,  mysterious  instru- 
ments and  singular  vials,  all,  —  all,  —  save 
the  red  book. 

The  Madam  could  not  believe  her  eyes. 
Rapidly  she  searched  the  desk,  displacing  its 
contents  and  researching  every  nook  and 
comer,  but  her  efforts  were  fruitless.  There 
were  packages  of  letters,  mysterious  vials, 
and  instruments  as  mysterious,  but,  —  the 
red  book  was  not  there. 


For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the  Madam 
experienced  a  sensation  of  fear, — unmingled 
fear, — and  for  the  first  time  saw  ruin  open 
like  a  chasm  at  her  very  feet.  She  grew 
pale,  sank  helplessly  in  her  arm-chair,  and 
sat  there  like  a  statue, — rather  like  an  image 
of  imperfectly  finished  wax- work,  —  her  vis- 
age blank  as  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"  Gone, — gone,"  the  words  escaped  from 
her  lips,  "  ruined,  undone  !" 

This  state  of  "unmasterly  inactivity" 
continued,  however,  but  for  a  few  moments. 
All  at  once  she  bounded  from  her  chair,  and 
a  blasphemous  oath  escaped  —  more  strictly 
speaking — shot  from  her  lips.  She  crossed 
the  floor,  with  a  heavy  stride,  gave  the  bell- 
rope  a  violent  pull,  and  then,  hurrying  to  the 
door  screamed  "  Corkins  !  Corkins  !"  with  all 
her  might. 

"Why  don't  they  come  !  Fools,  asses!" 
and  again,  she  attacked  the  bell-rope,  and 
again,  buried  to  the  door, — "Corkins,  Cork- 
ins, I  say  !    Halloo  !" 

In  a  few  moments  Corkins  appeared,  his 
spectacles  awry  and  his  right-hand  laid  affec- 
tionately upon  his  "  goatee." 
"The  matter?" 

"  Don't  stand  there  starin'  at  me  like  a 
stuck-pig  !"  was  the  elegant  reply  of  the 
Madam, — "  down  into  the  cellar, — quick, — 
quick !  Tell  Slung  to  come  here.  Not  a 
word.    Go  I  say  ! " 

She  pushed  Corkins  out  of  the  room. 
Then  pacing  up  and  down  the  small  apart- 
ment, she  awaited  his  return  with  an  anxiety 
and  suspense,  very  much  like  madness,  ut- 
tering blasphemous  oaths  at  every  step  she 
took. 

Footsteps  were  heard,  and  at  length,  Cor- 
kins, dressed  in  sober  black,  appeared  once 
more,  leading  Slung-Shot  by  the  hand.  The 
ruffian  stumbled  into  the  room,  his  brutal 
visage,  low  forehead,  broken  nose  and  elon- 
gated jaw,  bearing  traces  of  a  recent  de- 
bauch. Folding  his  brawny  arms  over  his  red 
flannel  shirt,  he  gazed  sleepily  at  the  Madam, 
politely  remarking  at  the  same  time  — 
"  What  de  thunder's  de  muss, — s-a-y  ?" 
"  Are  you  sober  ? "  and  the  Madam  gave 
Slung  a  violent  shake ;  "  are  you  awake  ?" 

"Old  woman,"  responded  Slung,  "you 
better  purceed  to  bisness,  and  give  us  none 
yer  jaw.    What  de  yer  w-a-n-t  ?  s-a-y ! " 


■  Th«'-Madafti^  e^i z«d'  him  the-  arm.  ;  • 
^  •M.'iVo'Trte^n'ha^'e^jttst^lefl  this  hoUse;  •lOne 
wears  a  cap,-^the  ofehef/^a  •hft-t.  •  1?ki(^  -©rwj 
wi1jh''-the'ca)^'and'  cloak'  is  th«  shGrtesfc  ot  the 
two-';''  aii(i  the  onfe  Avith  a  eap  .carrios  undfiff 
hie  dIoft.te'  'a  ''t)<:)akv  -bouiiicli  ■  in  ' ¥ed  mdroGco; 
Which  -hfe'  has'  just  stb'ten  friim -yonder  desk; 
jyye  ^vekt  ? "'  1  ^vdnt  'jon" to- •  track  -  hiin; 
gbt'  bjl'ck  thdt^  book 'at  iiny  prrc6  eveil  if ' 
ybit'h'aVe  to--"  '    '•'  .  ; 

'^'  Fech  him-  ill)  wM-dis'?'"  and  the  TtlfBatl 
di'cr^V'  a-"'sli>ng-shot "  from  the  sleeve  of  his 
ri^htaritt;'    •  '  '■  ■■■■■■ 

^' **"'YesV"^^s '  ariyhoTvv'or'  by''  any  means," 
c(WitiMtied 'the  Maddm  ;'**  6n]y  brittg  Mck  the' 
bb(Jk'  bftfore-'iliormng;- and  a  hundred  dollars' 

ft^e  yours,    i&'ye'-hettf  ?"  •'  -  "  '  •      •  ■• 

A  ^hbrti§h"-'tfhap--'\vith  sfc  'cap'a'n*  eldak-,''' 
cx'claiitted  ■  Sluii^  ; "'there's  a  •  good  •  mAny 
shbVtish  chap^'Wit-h  xapd  in  this  'ere  town^ 

'''*"'r hstts'it ! ■!  haV-e  it  !"  '6ned'  the  Madam; 
atid' then' she  conveyed  hei"  irlstrtictions' to- 
Siiih^'  ih"a  sfew  'tod  measured  VOiCe,  -"'Bori't 
yb'ii"' think'  'VOu'd-  -ktitix'  hitii'  ftow'?."-  she-  e-Xr 
cfaittied,  -^i^hen  herinsti'iictio'n&' W6re  eompiet^-.- 

y  Cbuld  pidc  'im  out  ''arriong'-a'  thousand."' ■ 
Atja  '  the  ■•'raffiiiri.-- 'closed- '•ott^"eye;--!CiaAH^-- 
cfe'aied  the  boundless-  ligTin'esls  'Of -his" "face; 
bj^'a'h'irid'dscrt'b'abl^  ^imace;' ''.     -  •• 

''**'Xx6  thfen,^nb''titoe''s-'t6  bfe  ^lost,^a"  huh-' 
d/ed' iioriat^;  you''  miM  ;' **  And  Shc'  urge'd  him' 
tS '  "the '  door."  ■ '  He-'  dntch'ed  'thfe  ^sluiig^shdt 
afi'd 'disappedt-'ed:       '     ■■  *'  ''  '-'  "  '  '"'  •'•  -''  ■' 

*  "Corking 'ap'pt6^cliM*  arid  looked' the  Ma-dam ' 
in 'the  face."        '•' '"•'.■■*'--•''=•••■•'<•'.•''•>•-:• 

'■""i^he  tet'Tjobi  g6ntl  ?""  -he"^sl^ed,  every" 
liiie  ^of'-"hls  viSag^  'dl'spTajrin^-  as'toni^Htn'^ht' 
a^^d 'terroV.' ■'  '"  '  '  ■'  '      " '•  ' 

"'/'•'i&bne;"  '^'chbVd ''the'  M'acdam;  -^'t'o  Suffe' 
I't^'is."'  ''"Our  o'nly'  fepc'''i^'  ifr'  th-dt  ■'.ru^S^an.-- 
Ofn'e'^\^IT-iplant''e(^  blow  \yith''i  stung-shdt;' 
wlirlcill.tHc'sfrongiesVm'dtl."''  ''''  •• 

''•;T^e''r^i"'"TDbyk'^ri^M''*'  'cijrkins  'fairly 
tfemblei  'vntYi  a'-ffrigll  '  'Sfaggeririg  -  like" a' 
drii^ken'man,  he  'nianaged  "to'  'd'eposlt  hiiii'-' 
setC'in  a  cTfaif.'  He  took' the' gdld  speCtacU'^ 
from  his  nose/ and  wiped  themV  ih 'an' "absent 
way.  Bad|''  'iie''mutt'e'fe'd.  • '  T^hdh  passitig 
his  hand  from  his  "goatee ''''to  his  (bp-^iiat; 
and  'frojn'to'p-knot''to'''";'g^^^  d^'dih''he; 
mutiierek; ^ red'  t^ok' '  ^ohe'T '  w'hs.'t  Will'  j 
b^cbme'of'usf »>  ^'^^^^-'i^--'  '^'•^^  '^''H 


•■'  :**jlf  1  i t'ia : not  naboTcfccd'  -before ,  mofniflg,.  .we  . 
are'  ^ionia  for/*/,  feriad  ,tiie  Madaip/y  "ith^itfa  ; 
all;'?  '.  But  thi&:.  is  no-  time  foe /fogliiaV?,^ 
Come;  sir;  !•  stir. your  stumps  !."■■  -.  v.;-  '-,:* 

■  8h,e  took-  the--- light  xiiid. vied'. the  way  up- 
stairs,- folio wefd :  by  ■■  Corldjis,  ,who: .  shook- . .in,  / 
e.Very  -fiber y.-.  mUr nau ring,   at.  ev^ry: '  step; , 
"•Gone-!  gone  I  •'The  rcd-boak  gona^I/^...);;--  r 

•  Entering-  th«-' passage  which,  .ladr.  to....th«w 
chiamber  of- Alice,  the  Madam  paused- at.. tha  , 
door,  of  th'at'.chambeiv  stnd  pointed -to. ,tho.i 
•-dO'Or''of  the •  closet •  which  (you. will  idmem-..-. 
ber)  was  -buried- ii-ndei-  the  stairway -that: ;led; 
to  the  fourth  story.  '^.u,;^ 

:  A'-  faiint ■  moan  •  -was  heard- ;  it  cam-d .  frbln 
the- ehamber- of  Alice.- ■•  •  The  .Madam  did.  n^  .' 
heed  that  moan,  but  opening  the.  closet  daoff^ 
crossed •  Ifes  thresh&ld^-  followed  by  ;Gbr.kinB. 
The  -light- disclosed  ;thG  details,  of  -thatsmail  * 
and  gloomy  place ;  and  glittered  brightly!.' 
upon  a' inahogany  chest  oy:box:  .whi(Jh  tested 
on  the-  -floori  ••A  .mahoga/ny  box, -with.  &upt,i 
face -polished  like  a- m-irror,  and  a  shape- -thxit  2 
told  ' at  sight  of -death  and -  the: -grave;  .  w'ltD 
was'a-coffin  -;^  »nd''-the  "coffin-  of  -that- tname- 
less  girl  who --had  -been.  remoTed'ifropX''lll^'«* 
biedj-  in'' -tii^-' 'adjoining' ieb^bei-;.  inV.oirdet  'to 
make  room'for  AjliOe^'--         •?;.'/a>.  jj-jA...::,;,;  a 
WhatJi-^.whdt-^s-^to-U.be'— doneU^wfth 
— her  ?  "  said  ^  -GOfkins,  ^  a^-  be.  toucihedi  tha  r 
CdfStt  With  his- foot;-'  :■!•.•;  -.isil 

■  -Here,  'f or :  one  -  m-oraentj  •  Whilei  Gorkijngi  aa^  i 
the-M'add.m  -st^nd'-  besid« -4^6--  coffin,. aiiAth?©'' 
lonely-closet  of  the'-ac«utsed-'mau^ioni} •'  h&ve'f-j 
for  one  moment,  turn  your  gaze-away/!:  Look.'. 
fkt'ihi^iigh'tlk'&m^bi,  add  .J(?t>yourJgafe6./<J5i 
upon  the  fireside  light  of  yonder  Jv!>eW"E?)g^> 
land  home.   It  is  a  q-uiet  fireside,  in  the  city 
of  Hartford  ;  ai;|d,  a, father  .aiid,  a  mother  are 
sitting  there,  bewailing  the  siiigular  absence 
of  their  only  daughter,  a'  b'eaiiti'ful'''girl,  the 
hiop;fe  'and'  t-h^  ^Tigh^ ••••Of ''their  ^-■bome^'-s-'ke 
sfrari'gely  idi  sappeai^ed  a-  w^ek  -  ago;  -^n'd! '  Bi^Ef ce'"-* 
then,  'tHe'3A'-hdH"'e  -■'l\eaiti"*ho-  ^sign's  'tod^'-ti^n^' 
oi'^hii'Me: -"-f' 

■  Arid  iidw-ihey  ure  sitting  by 'thieir-'^Iesolat-e^; 
fireside;  the  father  choking- do-tVil- Ms 'ag&toyi' 
in'-sif^h't'pray  er '  IRe '  tft'oth^'r 'givilrfg  'Trfee-  veiit 
t6''h^er  ianguish''''in-d'flo6d 'Of  - tears.  •-'TA.'ad  'fh'd" 
eye'^'"'6f  'fathier  '  arid,  'mother '  'turn-'-'fb'  -tbfe^ 
dkn^htei^s  pkce'by  the-'fii'es^  it  is'-vftban^'- 
arid" forever."'  ••■'For  "AVhili^  '  they  'beVa-it 


186 


THROUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 


morning  light, — their  daughter  rests  in  the 
coffin,  here,  at  the  feet  of  Madam  liesimer. 
Weep,  fond  mother ;  choke  down  your 
agony  with  silent  prayer,  brave  father :  but 
tears  nor  prayers  can  never  bring  your 
daughter  back  again.  To-night,  she  rests  in 
the  coffin,  at  the  feet  of  Madam  Kesimer ; 
to-morrow  night — Look  yonder  !  A  learned 
doctor  is  lecturing  for  the  instruction  of  his 
students,  and  his  "subject"  lies  on  the  table 
before  him.  That  "  subject,"  (Oh  !  do  you 
see  it,  father  and  mother  of  the  distant  New 
England  home,)  that  "subject"  is  your  only 
daughter. 

Verily,  the  tragedies  of  actual,  every-day 
life,  are  more  improbable  than  the  maddest 
creations  of  romance. 

**  What  shall  we  do  with  her  f  "  again  ex- 
claimed Corkins,  touching  the  coffin  with  his 
foot. 

The  Madam  was  troubled.  "  The  red 
book  !"  she  muttered,  in  an  absent  way,  "the 
red  book  ! "  Her  mind  was  evidently  wan- 
dering.   "  It  must  be  regained  at  any  price." 

"But — this — body,"  interrupted  Corkins, 
tapping  the  coffin  with  his  foot. 

"  Oh  !  this  ! "  exclaimed  the  Madam,  and 
a  pleasant  smile  stole  over  her  face. 

"  Oh  !  as  to  this  !  we  can  easily  dispose  of 
it.    I  tell  you,  Corkins,  we  will — " 

But  she  did  not  tell  Corkins.  For,  from 
the  adjoining  room,  came  a  cry,  so  ring- 
ing with  the  emphasis  of  mortal  agony,  that 
even  the  Madam  was  struck  with  terror, 
as  she  heard  it. 

Without  a  word,  she  led  Corkins  into  the 
chamber  of  Alice. 


CHAPTER  VL 

A    BRIEF  EPISODE. 

Away  from  these  scenes  of  darkness  and 
of  crime,  let  us,  for  a  moment,  turn  aside 
and  dwell,  for  a  little  while,  on  the  fireside 
ray  of  a  quiet  home.  Yes,  leaving  Arthur 
and  Herman  to  pursue  their  way,  let  us  in- 
dulge in  a  quiet  episode  : 

It  is  a  neat  two-storied  dwelling,  standing 
apart  from  the  street,  somewhere  in  the 
upper  region  of  the  Empire  City.  Through 
the  drawn  window- curtains,  a  softened  light 
trembles  forth  upon  the  darkness.  Gaze 
through  the  eurtains,  and  behold  the  scene 


which  is  disclosed  by  the  mingled  light  of 
the  open  fire,  and  of  the  lamp  whose  beams 
are  softened  by  a  clouded  shade, 
j  A  young  mother  sitting  beside  a  cradle, 
;  with  her  baby  on  her  breast,  and  a  flaxen- 
I  haired  boy,  some  three  years  old,  crouching 
I  on  the  stool  at  her  feet.  A  very  beautiful 
I  sight, — save  in  the  eyes  of  old  bachelors,  for 
whom  this  work  is  not  written,  and  who  are 
affectionately  requeste'd  to  skip  this  chap- 
ter,— a  very  beautiful  sight,  save  in  the  eyes 
of  that  class  of  worn-out  profiigates,  who 
never  having  had  a  mother  or  sister,  and 
having  spent  their  lives  in  degrading  the 
holiest  impulsQi,  of  our  nature,  into  a  bestial 
appetite,  come,  at  last,  to  look  upon  woman 
as  a  mere  animal  ;  come,  at  last,  to  sneer 
with  their  colorless  lips  and  lack-luster  eyes, 
at  the  very  idea  of  a  holy  chastity,  as  em- 
bodied in  the  fonn  of  a  pure  woman.  Of  all 
the  miserable  devils,  who  crawl  upon  this 
earth,  the  most  miserable  is  that  lower  devil, 
whose  heart  is  foul  with  pollution  at  the 
very  mention  of  woman.  Take  my  word  for 
it,  (and  if  you  look  about  the  world,  you'll 
find  it  so,)  the  man  who  has  not,  somewhere 
about  his  heart,  a  high,  a  holy  ideal  of 
woman, — an  ideal  hallowing  every  part  of 
her  being,  as  mother,  sister,  wife, — is  a  vile 
sort  of  man,  anyhow  you  choose  to  look  at 
him ;  a  very  vile  man,  rotten  at  the  heart, 
and  diffusing  moral  death  wherever  he  goes. 
Avoid  such  a  man, — -not  as  you  would  the 
devil,  for  the  devil  is  a  king  to  him, — but  as 
you  would  avoid  the  last  extreme  of  de- 
pravity, loathsome,  not  only  for  its  wfetch- 
edness,  but  for  its  utter  baseness.  It's  a 
good  rule  to  go  by, — never  trust  that  man 
v/ho  has  a  low  idea  of  woman, — trust  him 
not  with  purse,  with  confidence,  in  the  street 
or  over  your  threshold, — trust  him  not  '  his 
influence  is  poison ;  and  the  atmosphere 
which  he  carries  with  him,  is  that  of  hell. 

It  is  a  quiet  room,  neatly  furnished  ;  a 
lamp,  with  a  clouded  shade,  stands  on  the 
table ;  a  piano  stands  in  one  corner ;  the 
portrait  of  the  absent  father  hangs  on  the 
wall ;  a  wood  fire  burns  briskly  on  the 
hearth.  A  very  quiet  room,  full  of  the 
atmosphere  of  home. 

The  mother  is  one  of  those  women  whose 
short  stature,  round  development  of  form 
and  limb,  clear  complexion  and  abounding 


THROUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 


137 


joyousness  of  look,  seem  more  lovable  in 
the  eyes  of  a  certain  portion  of  the  mascu- 
line race,  than  all  the  stately  beauties  in  the 
world.  Certainly,  she  was  a  pretty  woman. 
Her  eyes  of  clear,  deep  blue,  her  lips  of 
cherry  red,  harmonized  with  the  hue  of  her 
face,  her  neck  and  shoulders, — a  hue  resem- 
bling alabaster,  slightly  reddened  by  a  glimpse 
of  sunshine.  Her  hair  rich  and  flowing,  was 
neatly  disposed  about  the  round  outlines 

of  her  young  face.    And  in  color,  ah, 

here's  the  trouble.  I  see  the  curl  of  your 
lip  and  the  laugh  in  your  eyes.  And  in 
color,  her  hair  was  not  black,  nor  golden, 
nor  brown,  nor  even  auburn.  Her  hair  was 
red.  You  may  laugh  if  it  suits  you,  but  her 
red-hair  became  her ;  and  this  woman  with 
the  red-hair,  was  one  of  the  prettiest,  one 
of  the  most  lovable  women  in  the  world. 
(Why  is  it  that  a  certain  class  of  authors, 
very  poverty  stricken  in  the  way  of  ideas, 
always  introduce  a  red-haired  woman  in  the 
character  of  a  vixen, — always  expect  you  to 
laugh  at  the  very  mention  of  red-hair — in 
fact,  invest  the  capital  of  what  little  wit  they 
have,  in  lamentabh'-  funny  allusions  to  red- 
heads, red-hair,  and  so  forth  ?  Or  if  they 
fall  in  love  with  a  sweet  woman,  with  bright 
red-hair,  why  do  these  authors,  when  they 
make  sonnets  to  the  object  of  their  choice, 
persist  in  calling  red-hair  by  the  ambiguous 
name  of  auburn  f) 

And  thus,  in  her  quiet  home,  with  her 
baby  on  her  breast  and  her  boy  at  her  knee, 
sat  the  beautiful  woman,  with  red  hair.  Sat 
there,  the  very  picture  of  a  good  mother  and  a 
holy  wife,  lulling  her  babe  to  sleep  with  a  verse 
from  some  old-fashioned  hymn.  Somehow 
this  mother,  centered  thus  in  her  quiet  home 
— the  blessing  of  motherhood  around  and 
about  her  like  a  baptism, — seems  more  worthy 
of  reverence  and  love,  than  the  entire  first 
circle  of  the  opera,  blazing  with  bright  dia- 
monds and  brighter  eyes,  on  a  gala  night. 

The  boy  resting  one  hand  on  his  mother's 
knee,  and  looking  all  the  while  into  her  face, 
asks  in  his  childish  tones,  "  When  will  father 
come  home  ?" 

"Soon,  love,  very  soon,"  the  mother  an- 
swers, and  resumes  the  verse  of  the  old 
hymn. 

Now,  doesn't  it  strike   you   that  the 
usband  of  such  a  wife,  and  the  father  of 


such  children  must  be  altogether  a  good 
man  ? 

We  will  see  him  after  awhile,  and  judge 
for  ourselves. 

Meanwhile,  sit  alone  with  your  children, 
and  watch  for  his  coming,  —  you,  simple 
hearted  woman,  that  know  no  higher  learn- 
ing, than  the  rich  intuitions  of  a  mother's 
love.  Your  chastity  is  like  a  vail  of  light, 
making  holy  the  room  in  which  you  watch, 
with  your  boy  at  your  knee,  and  your  baby 
on  your  bosom. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THKOUQH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 

It  was  a  strange  march  which  Arthur  and 
Barnhurst,  arm  in  arm,  took  through  the 
streets  of  the  Empire  City. 

"  I  am  ready  to  attend  you  wherever  you 
go,"  whispered  Arthur,  as  leaving  the  den 
of  Madam  Resimer,  they  went  down  the 
dark  street. 

"  But,  where  shall  I  go  ?"  was  the  ques- 
tion that  troubled  Barnhurst.  "  Home  ?*» 
He  shuddered  at  the  thought.  Any  place 
but  home  !  "  Can  I  possibly  get  rid  of  him?" 
Doubtful,  exceedingly  doubtful ;  "  his  arm 
is  too  strong,  and  he  has  me  in  his  power  in 
every  way.  But  that  engagement  which  I 
have,  to  meet  a  person  at  the  hour  of  four 
o'clock,  at  a  peculiar  place, — how  shall  I 
dispose  of  it  ?  Shall  I  fail  to  keep  it,  or 
shall  I  make  this  man  a  witness  of  it  ?" 

Barnhurst  was  troubled.  He  knew  not 
what  to  do.  And  so  arm  in  arm,  they 
walked  along  in  silence  through  a  multitude 
of  streets, — streets  dark  as  grave- vaults,  and 
laid  out  in  old  times,  with  a  profound  con- 
tempt of  right  angles — streets  walled  in  with 
huge  warehouses,  above  whose  lofty  roofs, 
you  caught  but  a  glimpse  of  the  midnight 
stars. 

And  so  passing  along,  they  came  at  length 
upon  the  Battery,  and  caught  the  keen  blast 
upon  their  cheeks,  as  they  wandered  among 
the  leafless  trees.  They  heard  the  roar  of 
the  waters,  and  saw  the  glorious  bay, — dim 
and  vast, — surging  sullenly  under  the  broad 
sky,  dark  with  midnight,  and  yet,  glittering 
with  countless  stars.  A  star-light  view  of 
Manhattan  bay,  from  the  Battery — it  was  » 
sight  worth  seeing.    Herman  and  Arthur, 


Tmoutmi  THE: ;  sii^ent;  cirrnr. 


stepd^ng  tj[ikei:e,:pJ.Q^ii5, 4<j>ol(;e«l!:foi!th:  ini  Silence^ 
They  could  not  see  each  other's  faces,''  but 
Arth.ul;  felt  ,thei  incossmt.'toroE-Avijitth  ^agi- 
tated  Banihurst's  arm  and  Baruh:iu-trt  heixrd 
tb^  gi'.OAn  \MhLch:.iS(iemed.;W«i)g:,from:'.A'r- 
thtir^.  vefy  .lioart;,:.. ■  •;  .;  r  j.  ■ 

Tor  A  ioiig  time  thcve:  was.-sUeiwe,''  iF;la«h 
on,  old •  iftidnight,^ iij.  your,  jsolemn- .drapery  set 
A\;ith..  jstftrs,f-rMash- ;on,.--.youx:s4paTklieil  thm. 
gran.diy  t.eu.'  tihousantJ  yieai'S  ago,  aB  -ypiirwiU 
tea^^tha«6a^ld•.3Ie:)i's•  •hiencei^wbat;  care;  ybii 
for  the  agony  of  these  two  nien^v\vhQ,.;.Bo\H! 
■with  widely  different_..fe^lings,  stand  awed 
by  your  sullen  splendor  ! 

"If  you've  s'deh  eiibAg'h'or 'this,  I  guess 
we'd  bettet^gb,'^-  Md--A?t¥t\r,^-TOilMif7  "  I  am 
ready -toofollovi^iytHi  svhereveri  you  go.-"  ••■ 

^iBtirhiiurst:.Bilently  .moved;  away  from'tW 
waters,  and  as  they- went  ;amoiig  the  leafless: 
tneeg,  -Dermdyne-  •  !l9ok«d '  .•  back  :  toward  "th e 
somldirDg.' wAV.es.-Ulooked  :back  yjearmngly'as 
thoHgk  «mviWing  ta  Idave  tke'.sightrrof;  tliem',- 
something  there  was  so  tempting  -.'in:.-that 
fiight.;'  Onfe  ^iun'^e  -and  allisrover:!  v  .  ■:  '  i 

'"They  came  upon:  Broad  Way. --.It  was  be- 
tween;; two-^ind.  tiiafee  ^o'clock  'in  the  tflorning.: 
I  -kiiowidf  iiothirig.jnitka  world-,  so  ptodiWctave 
of -thoi^ht:,-  as !  a'Jwalk!  along-.  iBroad wa s'abbufc 
tlij\ee;  0'«l.peka.n.  the  laKiraing.;';  Xhe' haunts 
oi  tmffio  'are: : closed-.:  the  great  .'irtGry,  of  ■  tho 
city  is  "silent"  as  di^ath  :  ithe  Ti>ad-.  oun-ent.  -of. 
life  iwh;ich-^'Whii4ed  along,  it'  inoegsantiy  ,a  felw 
h&iii;^- afg^'  -has/  dis:^ppeared<^^  or  if  "there-  is 
life  upb'ii-itB.-  broad  llag-stonesi'ltiisdifelof  rai 
p^etiliar  ^charadter,  fiiT'differeBt  'fro.'Biith»:*Hfe 
of'.thSe  d&fi^'  Aaid- there  it  ispwaads. before  yoWy 
iiiidfei*' • -thfe '  midoigbt:  stars]  - -its.^  yast.<  extertt. 
d^fiai^d  ■  two  -lilies  of'  -light, -whieli,-  ifr.  thei 
far  dis^a^ee 'melt  Q«t6  .  0110 :  vague  mass'  (j)f/; 
brightner8S/"  'N^w  *Yt>rk--i«  -ths  Einpiite  City: 
of  the<;ah€iiient'arid''  Broad^wayiii -the"  Empire ; 
Street  trf't/he-WoM;'-  ;-'!^;..;  ^      i  :  : 

If  you  don't  believe  it,  just  walk  the* 
le^gt^i'^f  ■  BrcJaidAYaji  on"a*-«itiitiy  •d^y;-:  ^hen. 
it  is-'tnad  '^'ith-  Ufa  'and=  motj.on;*— an4  the^: 
"wailk^Mt,  kt'"'night;'  a6d •  the -'kmd  of:  MtJ-' 
wblch-'c'ree^  6v«r-its  ^^-st<!)m%'  ti-ndlatr.'lthoi 
lij^htTJf'thef  stars.!- •;■  .-..J;  v/...;  htu.        «  -.i 

'  They  todkHHcir'  sil^ht  ttifi^eh'¥p"  Brodd^ay*: 

:  What4;  this  ?^--«'A/Hligfr''-^irflo;-'  •fettrFcWiwid^Ji 
b^'tiiislgbt^y-&^afft3Wfeg--^>M  pilfe:,' 
WhdS'e'fdtimJial^ott-'ife  a'ffibiJg'-^i?-ay'efl:  and'^-liosd' 


fctfirs .  2 '  • :  vTj-iaityri  i Chiu'ch .-4^ .Trihity.:-:  Ghwuab^ 
frentiflg  WiallifStfreetv  ap  rthdnglu  to-.xN^itra  its.: 
w.oj-bhipersijwbt)  -.si^OMr-:  WiilLiSiti^oot!;  ^ix-z-daysl 
iu.,tb)3.-we<ik'..ji]  uearoh  -.tif-:  prfe)vari4'  ou-i-thiafr 
serveiitlj;  efioae.to;.Tri|aty  to:.say  a  rich-,i»aii<il 
pfaye'r,.- fwm  aiprayer-boakibQitad  ^iirgoi;d;.'j:-i 

-  Ai>d':  tlija,.  w4Mi.b*8..-thisi-? ;  /l.'dis-  cueatui'e'-itt"' 
\YQman?jj : atticey  whb:gl>deS:.,al-opg.i.tiiia  Ipar^ii 
me»'ty-'no»';Vac)CQ*tiji3^;  felia!  pas3er-byiilt.:lanV> 
g«age:,thatf  &ovind*x)n  woman'ls  Ji.ps^ likeithai 
apcfints-df  ^c'll-,^^arwi  iJDw,-tJiilowiiig!  hei'.-vail> 
aside^  elus jja.  bex-  ha»ds  i  an d-  i  looks  shudder*:  I 
ingly  acQund;'  as  though;  ccoijacd^its^itliiat.'fopl 
l\er,-iM  one^hearb  in  a-llitke  worldi,  caa-eid.orio'j 
throb i.-.i What's. this' 2;  .That-tis:  ^ivmmmii'. 
friends.)  •  A'fatbeiiiused  ii0i:ho]^-kQn  'iin 
kheiDS,  -just  after; th^.evqndiiig  pEaye*..Kv-ais:aa£4i 
— ra.  mt>ther-'Used.:  to-.-bend  a'rer.-Kei -&s-:s1»«j 
slept,-  and  -kiaslheFfsmilii^gifatiei,  aB-dabr^ath^'j 
a,  -mother'si.btetaaEg.-.ctver  hjer.-sialess  darlin'gi} 
But,:.cwlia«tvis.'  she  n6w:?..-;"What=id©e6[  sha/ 
here  .alcmevrotitl.  iri.i.th'e-.-cold;;  filarfc:inight.?fi 
,*  :  •*;:< She  . i-s;ia-4^naiit' of  bueiaf  .^the3 
Louses* ;  o.iviied  by :  iTi-inity  Ghurch;  She;:  list  ( 
out  in  .tlie  '.cold,  xiark  Dight,-TT,the.::po(aEblastHd'i 
thiiig  y<i)U:se«;-hev,-^eekingv.-{jut;  .o£.;ths 
of  her  ■5)oUutictti^.to  ■iswelL.thq-irB!v^aTa^i>ofi[ 
Tiisity  ChurcliiL';-^  '''       '^^  r  riii  vv  ovw  iii  lij^ 

.'  She  :o.ame  t-OAvacdjArt^biir  i.aind- rBar^ilrsty-r 
even.  &s  they!  .piissed  before.'  the  p.ortalg.^)f j ih^i 
unfinisbM.ehriccki  -ili-.d-ir-A  ;,•,?!;>;•>  i.-:  H'.Uiq'I 
She  laid  her  hand  on  ^i^thxir'a!  «rto, .-ajid;: 
saidltoih'ijQQ„'W:«>rds  .tfeai^-mefid  net^j-feeiwiStt^iri. 

,  A:i'tbur.: looked  .'long  iaad  .'SfceadHy^anto  •Keri 
fae<j;  It- :  .had-;-befin  •,•  v.eny :  beaiftiTu;i  •  mcc/fbuk :-; 
noAVi  tb«5e.  was  &\'4^r;i»ithfi;iiajpiQg-/ey,e«,,end;.; 
deafeh/in:!t.he-  hhieicirolefi  jbeufeathsthejiai;  .•.■SrUea 
had.faUe»,-:to  .th^  j0We!sfc;di^ft-;..lv.^  '.  (^u  -  xnoil: 

.•  f-'JLook  .ti^ete  A"  iwhispeiled  Aitthi^r-jlste  JSaiai*-! ) 
buret,  f  she'Wa$;;as.5ioppy::PuP!B  ;aa;AlijcB,:ai}d- 
as^  .pci<re,-f-thafc.riB^:.as- happ^f. md.i  aj>i  -pureL-ad;: 
Alice  rbefoje:..you:l4txe)v.b.ieri.,  ^-Wibiitiis  ::aliai) 
nawr-?']/;.:;-;;:  ,M"vii;  '^lij  'li' 

Barnbiur8t".did.nat  repiy.-ivJil;;'!-:/  iom 

.-.  Arthur  took  a -silver' dollar.  froKr  his  pocHet 
and'.'gav.e  - -itr :to.'  the  •  girli.! :  ♦••G6<' Ja!ofais/,'>he;( 
said[:.{^aiDd'/ God'^ity  youj!'^c;il>;ii!:.^  ;;:  '..'iS 
"Home  !"  she  echoed,  and  tobk.fcbedollaro 
witth  a»iiftci«di*IOifs,  look,  and  th^jri  uttering 
ai»i»aBg0niad'J*«gh,Jsh)e  wemub^la  s^end-.thea 
dollar, — one-half  of  it  for  rum  and  the  otteJ 
haliUoipay  tbe.TeotiwijichisW  owed  ta.TH- 


:  ' Here  iit  crociars ;  to •  ms.,  .>toi .  jirojiosfc  •  -threei 

cheers,  'to;  ^otl  old  .TiriuiibV'  Cliurch.-K-ajad, 
.  three  more  ito  the  Pntoiit  (gospel  which  in- 
1  fluences  the  tictiojis  of  -its  vcaerftblo  eorpo- 
-  rition.  :  Uip^hip-r—  hurrahi!     Htir.— ,  Ixit 

.  somehow  -the  cheering  dies;  awAy,'  when  one 
i  thinks  for  a  Biiiiute  of  ;;the  vaat  ;tontr{ifit  Ue- 
•  tween: the  Gt^spel. of:  Trinity  Church  and  the. 
:•  Gpspcl  of  the  Ntnv  Testament  ;.  I  .somehow 

thiijk  we  Avont  eheer  any  more.) 
: Up  Broadway  they  resiinipd  their  march, 
..HerBian  aiidJ  Arthiw,  arm  ia  arm^  and  silent 

as  the  grave.  To  see;  them  walk  so  ilovingly 
•tdgether^  you  would  :have  thought  tKenl  the 
j -best 'friends  in  the  world.  ; 

What's  yonder  light,  flashing' frdra  .tihe; 

•window  of  .the  iourthistory  ?    The  light  of- 

a  gambling  hell,  my  friend. ,  That  ;  li^hfe 
.  shines :  upon  •  pilds;  of .  gold  land  itpon  / faces 
.  haggard  w  ith  the  tortures  of  the  damned.'; 
•And' these  half  naked  forms,  cro.itchiDg  ;in 

the  -d'oorway  of  ydnder  mifini'shed  edifice^— 
•.  huddling  together  in  their  raigs,-  and  vasinly; 

endea^voring  to  keep  OAit:  ;the.  winter'si  icold. 

Children,  —  friendless^  orphaned  children. 

All  day  long, th^y,  roam  the  streets  in  search 

of  bread,  and  at  night  tkey  sleep  together  in 

this  luxurious  styl^.  '' ^ '  '• 
— -irBut  we  have;  arrived  at  the  Astoif  an'd  the. 
c-^Park"' stretched"  before  lis,  the  wind,  moaning 
l  aoiong  its  leafless  trises,'  Snd  its  lights  :glim'« 

mering  in  a  sort  of  mournful  radiance  through: 
-f.thid  gloom.  '.  The- Park,  whose  ■walks  by  day 
ct.!and  .ni«;;ht  have  been  ithe  theater  of  more 
1- tragedies  of  real  life,^^iore  harrowing  ago- 
ei'ny,  hopeless)  mifeery,- starving  deai!)air,-^han 

you  could  chronicle  in  the  compass  6.f  a 
<';th'0iisand  voUimek  ■.Gould :  these  .  flagSftonc!? 

speak,  how  many  histories  might  they. tell— . 
(  :  'lustbries..  of  tllOse^  who,  .mad -  with  the  last 
i  anguish  of  despair,  haivp  •  paced  these:  walks 

■  at -dead  of  night,  hesitating  befcwen  crime 

■  and  suicidcj  between  the  knifeiof  the  assasr 
'■  lin  and' the  last  pluaige  of  the  self  murderer  ! 

Bat  at  this:  moment,  shoutsi  of  dninkeii. 

mirth  are  heard,  opposite  the  Astor.  .  Som$ 

twenty  gay  young: gentlemem,  attired  iii  opera: 
''\inifonfq,—btaiGk  drcss-c6at^- white  vest,  is  hite 

kid  gloyeSj^and  fragrant  at  once  of  eham-. 

pagne  and  co 1 6gno,  have  formed-  a  circle  j 
i  around  tile,  ancient  pump,  whioli  stands  neat . 

the  Park  gate.  These  gay  young  gentl.emen, 
l  ifter  twoi  lioncs'  painfttl^induraaedjOf  :tha^ 


refinement  :oC  bortui^e,  Ikhcvwn  as  the .  Italian 
Opera,  hive  ,b(;ch  m-Jikjiig  a  .tCiu,rof  philoso- 
phical observation  through  the 'town  they 
have  carried  on  a  brisk  crusade  against  tho 
watchmen  ;  have  drank  miuch  champagno 
at  St  V  crack  "  hatel ;  hive  tarried  awhile  in 
the  firistocratic  resort  of,  Mr^  Peter  Williams, 
wldch,  as  you  doubtless  ,k no w^  ^ives  totie 
and  character  to  the  classic  region  of  the 
Five  Points;  and  now  encircling  the  pump, 
they  listen  to  the  eloquent  remarks  of  one 
of  ;their  nuiiiber,.Avto,is  interrupted  now  and 
then  by  rounds  of  enthusiastic  ajpplause. 
Very  much  .  inebriated,  he  is  seated  astride 
of  the  pump,  which  his  vivid  imagination 
transforms  into  a.  blooded  racer — r 

;  "  Gentlemen,"  he.  says,,  blandly  anci  with, 
^pardonable  tljiickness.of  utterance;  "if  nav 
xernarksi  should  :§ee.m ;  confused,;  attribute  it 
to  my  •  position ;  I  am  not  accustomed  to 
public  speaking  .o.n  hoi;-seb,aGk.  .  But,.  Jis-Cpn- 
gress  is  now  in  session,  I  deem  it  a 'duty 
wiii<?h,  .l;)0>ve  to, my  constituents,  to  give  my 
,vi§;ws  ,i(>^77-pn— rfqa-Jihe.i  gr^at  Bill  ,fpr,  the 
Protection  of — "  ;      .,  ;  ;  ; 

,  "  Huckleberries  !  suggested  a,  yoic^. 
"  Thank  the  gentlenian  frpm  Ann-street," 
continued  thp.  speaker,;  in  true  parliamentary 
^tyle>  ifk^  he  .  swayed,  to  ;and,  .  f  130,  on -  top  of 
the  pump  ;  "  of  the  great  Bill  for  the ,  Pro- 
tection of  Huckleberries  1"  .Now,.,  gentle- 
;menr"-he  continued,,  suddenly,  forgetting  his 
huckleberries,  "you  know  they  beat  Henry 
Clay  this,  time  by  their  infernal,  cry  of  Texas 
.a*iid  Oregon;  you  :know  it 

I'jtiere  was  a  frightful  <;hpiiis,|",W^  do  ! 
we  do ! " 

■■:  "Ypu  know: how  bad  we  felt  when  we 
crossed- -Cayuga:  bridge,^ — ^^P.olk  on  .^opj.  and 
GUy.tinderj-^but,  gentlemen, .  I.. hfiye  -a.  qry 
fpr  ',1848  .that ,  Avill  knogk  their  Aay lights  out 
of'i  'emi;;  Thej-:  shouted  Texas  and  Oregon, 
and  licked  us ;  but  in  1848  .we'll  -give  'em 
fits  with:  G7rt?/  and^jAPAN  ! ,  ;  .■; 
■  "Clay;  and  Japan!"  was  4;he.. chorus  of 
the  twenty  young  gentlemen,  ^ 
-"There's  a  platform  for  you,  gentlemen! 
Clay  .and;  Japan  !  "\W,ll  give  'em  annexa-^ 
tiou:  up  to  their  eyes.  ■  Consider,  gentlemen, 
i  the  advar>tagea  of  Japan  !  Separiited  ,  fr^m 
the  continent  by  a  trifling  slip  of  w^ater, 
known  as  the  Papific  oceani  Japan  may.  be 
<;oia9id^©d.iA  tlw  Ixght  of  a  near.r^ieighbor. 


140  THROUGH  THE 

And  then  what  a  delicious  campaign  we  can  \ 
make,  with  J apan  on  our  banner  I    Nobody  ! 
knows  anvthinsj  about  her,  and  we  can  lie  i 
as  we  please,  without  the  most  remote  danger 
of  being  found  out.    Is  n't  there  something 
heart-stirring  in  the  very  word,  Ja-pan  ? 
And  then,  gentlemen,  we'll  have  'em ;  for 
Japan  aint  committed  to  any  of  the  leading 
questions  of  the  day,  and  we  can  make  all 
sorts  o'  pledges  to  everybody,  and — " 

The  orator,  in  his  excitement,  swayed  too 
much  to  one  side,  and  fell  languidly  from 
the  pump  into  the  arms  of  his  enthusiastic 
friends  ;  and,  with  three  cheers  for  "  Clay 
and  Japan,"  the  party  of  twenty  young  gen- 
tlemen went,  in  a  staggering  column,  to  a 
neighboring  restaurant,  where — it  is  pre- 
sumable— a  feAv  bottles  more  put  them,  not 
only  into  the  humor  of  annexing  Japan,  but 
all  Asia  in  the  bargain.  Arthur  and  Barn- 
hurst  had  observed  this  scene  from  the  steps 
of  the  Astor. 

"  Do  you  know  this  is  very  absurd  ?"  said 
Bamhurst,  pettishly — "this  walking  about 
town  all  night  ?" 

"Do  you  think  so?"  responded  Dermoyne. 
•*  Then  why  don't  you  go  home  ?" 

Home  !  Bamhurst  shuddered  at  the 
thought.  Home  !  Anything,  anything  but 
that ! 

There  was  something,  too,  in  the  singular 
gayety  of  Arthur's  tone,  which  struck  him 
with  more  terror  than  the  most  boisterous 
threat.  Underneath  this  gayety,  like  floods 
of  burning  lava  beneath  a  morning  mist, 
there  rolled  and  swelled  a  tide  of  unfathom- 
able emotion. 

"Let  us  walk  on,"  said  Bamhurst,  faintly; 
and  they  walked  on,  arm  in  arm  —  the  false 
clergyman  with  the  very  terror  of  death  in 
his  heart — the  poor  mechanic  with  a  face 
immovably  calm,  but  with  the  fire  of  an 
irrevocable  resolution  in  his  eyes.  They 
walked  on :  up  Broadway,  and  into  the 
region  where  sits  the  sullen  Tombs,  and 
through  the  maze  of  streets,  where  vice  and 
equalor,  drunkenness  and  crime,  hold  their 
grotesque  revel  all  night  long.  Through  the 
Five  Points  they  walked,  confronted  at 
every  step  by  a  desperate  or  abandoned 
wretch,  their  ears  filled  with  the  cries  of 
blasphemy,  starvation  and  mirth,— mirth, 
^hat  was  very  much  like  tho  joy  of  nether- 


SILENT  CITY. 

most  hell.  Into  Chatham  street  they  walked, 
and  up  the  Bowery,  and  once  more  across 
into  Broadway,  where  the  delicate  outlines 
of  Grace  Church,  with  its  fairy-like  sculpture 
work,  were  dimly  visible  in  the  night.  To- 
ward the  North  River,  and  through  narrow 
alleys,  where  human  beings  were  herded 
together  in  the  last  extreme  of  misery,  they 
walked ;  and  then  into  broad  streets,  whose 
splendid  mansions,  dark  without  from  pave- 
ment to  roof,  were  bright  within  with  rich 
men's  revels,  —  revels,  drunken  and  foul 
beyond  the  blush  of  shame. 

It  was  a  strange,  sad  march,  which  they 
took  in  the  silent  night,  through  the  vast 
Empire  City. 

And  at  every  step  Arthur  gathered  the 
Red  Book  closer  to  his  side. 

And  behind  them,  in  all  their  march,  even 
from  the  moment  when  they  left  the  Battery, 
two  figures  followed  closely  in  their  wake — 
unseen  by  Arthur  or  by  Bamhurst, — two 
figures,  tracking  every  step  of  their  way 
with  all  a  bloodhound's  stealth  and  zeal. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

TRINITY  CHUBCH. 

At  length — it  was  near  the  hour  of  four — 
they  came  to  the  head  of  Wall  street  once 
more,  and  paused  in  front  of  the  portals  of 
unfinished  Trinity. 

"  Here  you  must  leave  me,"  cried  Bam- 
hurst, in  a  tone  of  desperation,  "  I  have  an 
appointment  in  this  church  at  the  hour  of 
four.  Leave  me,  —  at  least  for  a  little 
while — " 

But  Arthur  held  fast  the  false  clergyman's 
arm. 

"  1  will  never  leave  you,"  he  said.  "Keep 
your  appointment,  I  will  witness  it.  It  will 
be  very  interesting  to  know  what  business  it 
is,  that  can  bring  you  to  this  unfinished 
church  at  the  hour  of  four  in  the  morning." 

Barnhurst  set  his  teeth  together  in  silent 
rage. 

"  You  cannot,— cannot, — "  he  began. 

"  Not  a  word,"  stemly  intermpted  Der- 
moyne. "  Go  in  and  keep  your  appointment 
like  a  man  of  your  word." 

Barnhurst  led  the  way,  and  they  passed 
under  heavy  piles  of  scaffolding  into  the 
dark  churclL  Dark  indeed,  and  unenlivened 


THROUGH  THE 

by  a  single  ray  of  light.  All  around  was 
silent  as  the  grave.  The  profound  stillness 
was  well  calculated  to  strike  the  heart  with 
awe,  and  Arthur  and  Barnhurst,  as  they 
groped  their  way  along,  did  not  utter  a 
word. 

"  Here,  near  the  third  pillar,  I  am  to  meet 
him,"  whispered  Barnhurst, 

"  Give  me  your  left  hand,  then  ;  I  will 
conceal  myself  behind  the  pillar,  and  hold 
you  firmly,  while  you  converse  with  your 
friend." 

Herman,  in  the  thick  darkness,  placed 
himself  against  the  pillar,  and  Dermoyne, 
firmly  grasping  his  left  hand,  crept  behind  it. 

Thus  they  stood  for  many  minutes,  await- 
ing the  approach  of  Herman's  friend.  In 
the  dark  and  stillness  those  moments  seemed 
80  many  ages. 

A  bell,  striking  the  hour  of  four,  re- 
sounded over  the  city. 

At  length  a  step  was  heard,  and  then  a 
faint  cough, — 

"Are  you  here  ?''  said  a  voice  ;  and  Der- 
moyne, from  his  place  of  concealment, 
beheld  a  dimly-defined  figure  approach  the 
third  pillar. 

"  I  am,"  answered  Barnhurst. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  said  the  voice  of  the 
unknown. 

"I  am  Herman  Barnhurst" — His  voice 
was  low  but  distinct. 

"How  shall  I  know  that  you  are  the 
Barnhurst  whom  I  seek  ?"  asked  the  un- 
known. 

There  was  a  pause.  Barnhurst  seemed  to 
hesitate  : 

"*27i«  Night  of  the  Tenth  of  Xovemher, 
1842/  "  he  said,  and  his  voice  trembled. 

"Right;  you  are  the  man,"  said  the 
unknown.  "Did  you  receive  a  letter  last 
evening  ?" 

"I  did," — and  Barnhurst's  voice  was  very 
faint. 

"  How  was  that  letter  signed,  and  to  what 
did  it  refer  ?" 

Again  Barnhurst  hesitated.  Arthur  felt 
the  hand  which  he  held  grow  hot  and  cold 
by  turns. 

"  It  was  signed  by  '  The  Three,'  "  he 
replied  in  a  faltering  voice — "and  referred  to 
an  event  which  it  a^ssumes  took  place  on  ths 
night  of  the  tenth  of  November,  1842." 


SILENT  CITY.  141 

"  'Assumes ."  "  echoed  the  unknown,  with 
a  faint  laugh.  "  You  think  it  an  assumption^ 
do  you  ?  Well,  I  like  that.  And  the  letter 
requested  you  to  meet  one  of  the  *  Three,* 
at  this  place,  at  the  hour  of  four  this 
morning  ;  and  it  concluded  by  stating  that 
you  would  hear  something  of  great  interest 
to  yourself  in  regard  to  the  events  of  tJuit 
night." 

"It  did,"  faintly  responded  Barnhurst.  "I 
am  here,  and — " 

"We  will  have  a  little  private  conversa- 
tion together.  First  of  all,  you  must  know 
that  I  am  one  of  three  persons  who  take  a 
great  interest  in  your  affairs,  and  desire  to  save 
you  from  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  We  watch 
over  you  with  fraternal  anxiety,  and  do  all 
we  can  to  keep  you  out  of  harm.  And  oa 
the  part  of  the  Three,  (whose  names  you 
will  know  in  good  time,  in  case  you  prove 
reasonable,)  I  am  deputed  to  give  you  a 
little  good  counsel." 

"  Good  counsel  ?" 

"  Good  counsel,  was  the  word.  Now,  ia 
order  to  understand  this  good  counsel,  you 
will  understand  that  the  Three  are  in 
possession  of  all  the  facts  connected  with  the 
remarkable  event  of  the  night  of  the  tenth  of 
November^  1842.  Facts,  certified  by  proof — 
you  comprehend  ?" 

Herman  gave  a  start,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  You  will,  therefore,  listen  to  the  good 
counsel  with  patience,  I  doubt  not.  To  corns 
to  the  point,  then : — Y'ou  know  that  tha 
immense  property  of  Trinity  Church,  com- 
prising, at  a  rough  guess,  one  eighth  of  tha 
greatest  city  on  the  American  continent,  has 
been  threatened  at  various  periods  by  a  series 
of  conspiracies,  who  have  given  the  corpo- 
ration much  trouble,  and  who,  more  than 
once,  have  nearly  accomplished  its  ruin  ?" 

"I  do,"  answered  Herman;  "and  thesa 
conspiracies  have  all  sprung  from  a  band  of 
persons,  widely  dispersed  through  the  United 
States,  and  calling  themselves  the  heirs  of 
Anreke  Jans  Bogardus." 

"Right,"  continued  the  unknown.  "An- 
reke Jans,  said  to  be  the  natural  daughter  of 
a  king  of  Holland,  lived  on  this  island  about 
two  hundred  years  ago.  At  her  death  she 
bequeathed  to  her  children  a  certain  farm — 
a  farm  which  at  the  present  time  forms  tha 
very  heart  of  New  York,  and  constitates  a 


IU2 


-TSUOtrGH  'THE  SILENT  CITY. 


; ^great;part  :of  the  \vealtli  -of  Trinity* Chl\rch/ 
-•  for  it  ia  wol'th  countless  •triillio'ns  of  doHaJs.^ 
•■■  Now-ydu  are  well  aware  that  ii/ is  alleged  by: 

■  the  descendants  df  Art"?eke  Jans,  that  this 
'  fftVm"  was  Juggled  oxit  of  the  hands  of  one- 
'•of  their  ancestors  "by  a,  gross  fraud— a'  fraud 

■worthy  of 'that  cufse  which  Sct-ipture  ^  pro- 
"  iiOuijces:  upon  the  Irian;"  who  reirioves  his 
neighbor's   land-mark  —  and   that  Trinity' 
^  Church  hfiS' tfnly  one  right  to  the  ownietship 
of  said  farm,  to  wit :  the  i"l^ht  of  the  thief  ■ 
-  and' robber  ?'*' •;    '  "  ''  •-.         .;  •  ■ 
"■^      I  am  aware  of  this,'-*' responded  .'Herman;: 
"aiid  so'  powerful;  h-ave  been  the  prbdfs  of 
'- this  fraud;  that  the  Church  has,  on  various 
oocasions,  come  near  losing  the' very •'  jewel- 
of  dll' its.  immense  possessions;  -Only  onc' 
i'-'coui'se  of  action  has  baved  it'  from'  the'  heirs; 
-'of  Anreke  Jans  Bogardus— • 

h:as',- when  neatly  driven  to  the  wall,- 
c*>ns.ented' to 'compTQmise  with  the  heirs  for 
their  claim, — has  simply  desired  in  retutnj  a 
release,  signed  by  all  the  heirs, — ^and  then, 
'  ''oii' tlie  vei'y  eve' of -settlement,  it  has'  man- 
^  age^  tD  bu^  off  otie  or  two  of  the  iiiost 
: '''prominent 'heirs.  ■  •■  For  insiailMie,' Aai'on  Burr, 
•■ '  ('wiio'  ■  aeted  foi*  tke ' '  ^lieii'^y  SOm'e  thirty^  years 
\'ago;)  -\^ras  iulted  i'nto  silence  by  the  generosity 
—of  the  iCburch;  •She''gave  him  several  valua-^ 
ble  tracts  of  land,  whicK  lie  sold- tO"A'st6r-^" 
•".■Diie  'uii^nowtL'ipjtUSled'  for' a  moment,  and 
i  theri  ^esuifaed'^  '  .     :  ='''i^'  .       ;  •  i' 
■"'•""'At  the  pre'i^en^t  tinie,'  the^e  "iieil-s  are  p're-^ 
*^ai*ing  a  cdri^piracy,^Tnbre  desperately  ener- 
^  getic  than  any  previous  eflfoi^t.  It  is  certainly 
•  Wie  interest  of  the  ^  Church  '  to  -foil  this^  cdn- 

■  Spiracy  ait  all  •  hiazatds.  And  .we  -  *  TflftEE ' 
^■'pei»se)ris;  not  directly  eohh^ected:  with  the  cor-' 
--'J>oratibn,  thiilk  that  we '•  cati '  make  it  Our 

-intetest  '  to  assist  the  Ch'urch  ifi  the  fifial 
Overthrow  of  the  conspirators:    To'  do  this 
♦"'■'  e^otiialTy,- -Nis'e  require  the 'assistance  of  one 
of  the  heits,' who  \vdil  svind  himself  into  the. 

■  "jylanB  of  'the  cdnspiratdts,  help  the'  plot  to 
'i'tipeti'  and  help  us  to  rgctikBf  it  Vfhen  it  is 

ripe."  ■•'•••.; 

■  -  •'- '  Oiie  of  the  heirs  ?' "  muttered  Herman. 

■  ■ "    Ay,  bne '  of  the  heiTs,^and  he  must  be 

■  •  a  mill  -  of  sense,  shrewdness  aiid '  undoubted 
I'espec'tability;  Noxv—db '  you"  Heat  me  ?—- 
you,  Hetm^n  Ba^nhurst,  are  one  of  the  heirs 
of -'Anreke  Jan's  Bdgardtis.''''  ' 

'•     'Thet*  was  a  patisle  br^^  silence. 


•You  mi^ht  have  ^heaM  a  pin  diap,  in  the 
•deep  stillness  of  that  vast  edifice.;  "     • -  » 

"  I  am  one  of  the  heirs  of  Anreke  Jans/* 
said  Herman';    and  what  then/?"  . 

The  voice,  of  the  unknown  was  deep,  dis- 
tinct and  imperative  : 

"You  will  assist  us  in  •  foiling  these  con- 
spirators. YoU'  will  •  assist  •  us-  wrllingly, 
faitliifally,  and  >vtihout  reserve.  >  This  is  the 
good  caounsel  whlck  I  am  deputed  to  give 
.you.-'?  •  •■■    -  .  ■ .  •      •  ■   '  .  ■  .  .  ; 

"And  if  I  decline  ?"  said  Herman,  drain- 
ing'a  long  breath. ..  ; 

"  You  will  not  decline,  when'.you  'r«meAi* 
ber  the  ervent  of  the  night  qf  the  tenth  :iof 
November,  1642.":  .  - 

'  Dermoyne  felt  the  hand  which  be  clasped 
tremble  in :his. grasp.  ••.    ;  •  :• 

"Ah!"  and  Herman  drew  •  another,  long 
breathj  '  ■  ■  •  . 

"As  the  Third  of  the  Three,  I  beg  .your 
opinioh  of  my  good  cou'nsel,"  said  the  un- 
known. -  .  . :    •    :  .  ■ 
'  ^"  I  accept,"  said  Herman,  in  ^a  liUskjr 

■voice;  '    '   •  ■  ..■■•■.'/.••: 

•  But  Me  must  :haTe  some  =pledge  ifor  ydruf 
fidelity—"  ;'  : 

"  Have  you  not  pledge  enoughy'  Baid  'Her- 
msLn,  bitterly,  i"  if  you  know  the  ev-e'rits  of 
that  night — "  •  •  v  •:  .■:!;• 

•  •"  True-;  but  We:  require  some  othelr  little 
pledge  in  the  way  of  eollateral -^ias-^ -the 
money  lenders  say"— said'  the  unknown;  who 
had  designated  himself  as  "  the  Third'  0/ 
tJie  Three."  "In  the  event  of  a  certain  cbn- 
titigency— a  ve^y'  improbable  oontingeiicy, — 
you  will  inherit  one  seventh  of'  'the  ¥an 
H'liyden  estitte^"  '•  • '       '■ '   •       •  '. ' 

Herman  gave  a  start '-^e- moved  fofvrard 
suddenly,  but  was  drawn  b^ick  : against  the 
pillar  by  the'  sttong  grip-  of'  Dermoyne  -:• : .  ■ 

"  The  Van  Huyden  estate  !"  he  ejaculated 
in  a  tone  of  utter  astdnishment.'      •  ■  ' 

"I  said  the  Van  Huyden  estate,'^  cbn- 
tiiiued  the^hird  df  ' the  ■Three,— "  and  that 
should  satisfy  you  that  I  know  all  about' it. 
In  witness  of  your  gddd:  faith,  yqU  will 
to-morrow  make  over  to  us,  by  our  own 
proper  names,  and  over  your  own  proper 
■  signature,  all  yoiir  rjght,  title  and  interest  in 
the  "Van  Hiiyden  estate.  The  final  settle- 
in  en  t;yoti  know,,  takes  place- the  day  after 
to-mono w.   Jn  case  you  act  faithfully  us, 


''We  v^'ilt'restBl^' 'y()U  your  right  «fi'"  tlie  day 
■Wlieh,"bj  your  assistance,  \rc  hat'e  foilcJd'th'e 
heirs  of  Anrcke  Jans.  The  good  ■counsel 
Vhich  I  'liave  for  y6u  is  this  :  —  accept  this 
'pf6p6sitrbn  at  t)rice/if  you  Ttnow  what  is 
good  for  your  health,  your  reputation,  yoilr 
liberty."-'-       •■  '    '"•  -  •  ' 

^'Th-e  woras  of  the  Third  of  the  Three 
■"sVefe  succeeded  by  a  dead  pause.  It  was 
dark,  and  the  changes  •  of  Hehnan's  face 
•  coiild  fiot  be  seen.  A  sound  wjls  heard,  like 
'd  ha:lf-Suppressed  groAtt.  - 

■  ^  And  if  I  refuse  ?"  he  faltered  ~  "  if  I 
^ca:St  ybur  absurd  propositibri  to  the  winds  ?" 

"Then  (he  revelation  of  the  event  of  that 
%i^ht,  niay  cast  you  to  the  devil,'^  Was  the 
"Caltn' reply.  '  •  ' 

'  ■  ''At  least  give  me  sbinS  hours  I'or  re- 
'^e'dtion';  let  hie  consider  yoUt  proposal." 

*'  We  had  thought  of  this,"  answered  the 
•'  tinknbWh.  "  The  time  is  short:  '  The  ^5th 
'  tif  T)etiem1ber'  Will  soon  b^  here.^ -I  "iiin 
"Authorized  to  give  ybU  Until  tb-day 'at  rrifd- 
'  diy,— that  is,  you  have  nearly  eight  hours 
' fbi"' cairn  reflection."  '  .  - 

Herman  said,  after  a  moment's 'Hesitatibn,' 
"  ftl  ia,  IbW'and  scarce 'perceptible  vbicej— 
*^"'^'Be'it;so.'^' ■  "  ■  ■         '^^  ; 

'■''^^  in  "case' ybur  answer' is -Yes,  you  ■v^'ill' 
Bignify  it  in  this  manner" — and  he  whispered 
^ 'in  tlie  ear  of  his  victim,— whispered  a  few 
''  brief  Wbrds,' which  Herman  drank  in  with" 
■^11  his  soul.  "Kemfember,  before  tdid-day,' 
*'1iome  seven  arid  k'hialf  hbure  hence."^  ■ 

"  You  shall  have  my  answer  iri  the  man- 
ner Specified,"  said  Herman,  in  an  accent  of 
utter  bewilderment. 

"O'lir  interview  is  at  ^n  erid^"  saii  the 
*rhird  of  the  Three.     "  As  We  must  not  -bj 
any  chance  be  seen '  leaving  this  place 
"  together,  I  will  pass  through  the  grave-ysird, 
while  you  go  but  at  the  main  door.  Good 
'"'night'."   '■"•■■"      ■  '  •  ■■ 

And  leaving  the  miserable  man,  who  sank 
back"  against  the  pillar  for  support,  the  Third 
jof  the  Three  passed  from  the  shadows,  out 
'  'into  the  graveyard,  where  wiite  torrtbstones 
ippeared  in  the- starlight,  tnfngled  with  piles 
^-  of  lumber  . and  heaps  of  building  stone. 

As  he  came  into  the  starlight,  it  might  be 
.seen  that  Ke  was  a  slibrt  thick-set  maU,-  clad 
■.in  a  dark'-bver-coati  whose  Upturned  collai' 
hid  th6  low  part  of  hi^  visage,  while  his  hat, 


^ra-vmlbw  ov^r  his  bro^s,:  masked  the  upper 
pbf tibn 'of  his  face.  .  He  ohuckled  to  himself 
as  he  picked  his  Way- among  the  heaps' of 
lumber  -and  scattered  masses  of  building 
stone :   •        .     "  •.        ■  ■■    .  • 

"  It  is  a  nice  ganie,  auy  how  you  choose  to 
look  at  it.  ■■  The  heirs ;  of  Anrcke  Jans'  can 
be  played  against  the  Church  ;  this  man 
Herman  chn  be  played  against  the  heirs, 
and  the  Three  can  dicftate  terms  to  both 
paf ties,  and  decide  the  game.  Aiid  when  the 
Three  have  Wort,  why  then  the  Third  of  the 
Three  ean  hold  the  First  and  Second  in  his 
power  ;  especially,  if  this  man's  :chance  erf 
the  Seventh  of  the  Van  Huyden- -estate  Is 
transferred  to  the  Third,  by  hi«  own  propfer 
name.  Well,  well;  law,  properly  Understood, 
is  the  science  of  pulling  wool  over  other 
people's  eyes  :  .  eloc[uent  speeches  in  court, 
and  the  name  of  a  big  practice,  may  do  for 
some  people  ;  but  give  me"one'of  these  nice 
little  cases,  which 'He'  seqiiestered'  •froln  the 
public  view,  quiet  as  an  oyster  in  his  bed, 
and  as  juicy     •■  •  •  '     ■  - 

■  Thus  you  seb  that- the-  Third  of  the^Three 
•Was' a  philosopher.  He  paused  before  -  a 
marble  slab,  Over  which  he  bent,  tracing  with 
difficulty  the  insbription,  which  was  iri  quaint 
characters,  miuch'  worn  by  tiuie Van 
HutriEN;"  .         -  ;  ■   ■  ■  '■ 

"Strange  enough!  Just  aS  We  Were  about 
to  search  the  tomb  last  night,*  to  be  inter- 
rupted arid  scarbd  frbm  our  object  by;  a 
circumstance  so  unusual !  The  snug  sum  of 
$200,000,  iri  plate,  buried  in^a  coffin!^  an 
odd  kind  of  sub-treasury  !  Wonder  if  there's 
any  truth  in  the  legend  ?"      •  "     -  :  ."  '  • 

As  the  gentleman  thus  soliloquized  he 
fixed  his  byes  attentively  upon  the  slab ;  but 
he'  did  not'  see"  the  'iippyoaGh  of  a'  man, 
wrapped  in  the  thick  folds  of  a  clOak,  and 
With  a  brbadj-birimmed  hat  over -his  brOw, — a 
triari  who  came  noiselessly  from  the  shadows 
and  took  his  place  at  the  opposite  extremity 
bf  the'  "slab,  'quietly  folding '  his '  arms,  -as  he 
fixed  hfs  gaJie  upon  the  Third  of  the  Three. 

A  wild  sort  of  picture  this':  :The  gloomy 
church-tard,  with  its  leafless  trees,  and  tomb- 
stones half  hidden  atnong  heaps  of  timber 
and  of  stone.  Yondet,  the  church,  booking 
like  th'b  grotesque  creation  'of  ari  -eilcbanWr's 

*  See  Epitode,  page  114  of  the  Empire  Ci^. 


144 


THROUGH  THE  SILENT  CITY. 


power,  as  hidden  among  uncouth  scaffolding, . 
it  rises  vague  and  shapeless  into  the  sky. 
And  here,  by  the  tomb  of  the  Van  Huydens, 
two  figures, — the  Third  of  Three,  who,  in  a  | 
deep  revery,  fixes  his  eyes  upon  the  inscrip- ' 
tion — and  the  cloaked  figure,  whose  steady  i 
gaze  is  centered  upon  the  absent-minded 
gentleman. 

"Two  hundred  thousand  buried  in  a 
coffin,"— soliloquized  "the  Third,"  — "I 
wonder  if  I  could  not  make  a  little  search. 
The  place  is  quiet, — no  watchman  near — " 

"Liar  !"  said  a  voice,  in  tones  deep  as  the 
sound  of  an  organ.  "Learn  that  the 
Watcher  always  guards  the  vault  of  the  Van 
Huydens  :  —  learn  that  it  is  sacrilege  to  rob 
the  dead." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  END  OF  THE  MARCH. 

As  Dermoyne  led  Barnhui-st  forth  into  the 
open  air,  the  false  clergyman  staggered  like 
a  drunken  man.  His  tall  and  angular  form 
shook  like  a  reed ;  and  Arthur,  catching  a 
glimpse  of  his  countenance,  saw  that  it  was 
livid  and  distorted  in  every  feature. 

"Do  with  me  what  you  will,"  he  said  in 
broken  accents.  "  The  worst  has  come. — I 
do  not  care !  Come  ;  at  last,  you  shall  go 
home  with  me.    Home  !" 

He  turned  his  steps  up  Broadway,  leaning 
his  weight  on  Arthur's  arm  as  he  staggered 
along. 

Terrible  as  had  been  the  crimes  of  the 
wretch,  Arthur  pitied  him.  For  a  moment, 
only ;  for  the  dying  cry  of  Alice  was  in  his 
ear. 

"  Your  punishment  begins,"  he  whispered. 

And  thus,  up  Broadway,  they  resumed 
their  march  through  the  city. 

They  had  not  gone  many  paces  from  the 
church,  when  two  forms  sprang  suddenly 
from  the  shadows  of  the  scaffolding,  both 
clad  in  dark  overcoats,  with  caps  drawn  over 
their  faces.  They  were  the  forms  of  those 
unknown  persons  who  had  followed  Arthur 
and  Barnhurst  from  the  Battery  over  the 
city.  One  was  lean,  tall  and  sinewy  in  form; 
his  quick,  active,  stealthy  step,  resembled 
the  step  of  an  Indian.  The  other  was  short 
and  thick  set,  with  broad  chest  and  bow  legs. 

"Did  yer  see  der  Bed  Book,  Dirk  ?'* 


"  0'  coss  I  did  ;  as  he  come  out  o'  der 
church,  his  cloak  opened,  and  I  seed  'um 
under  his  arm.    0'  coss  I  did.  Slung." 

We  cannot  give  any  just  idea  of  the 
peculiar  patois  of  these  delightful  specim.ena 
of  the  civilized  savages. 

"  Travel's  der  word,"  said  Slung. 

"0'  coss  it  is  :  an'  if  we  ketch  'um  in  a 
dark  alley,  or  round  a  sharp  corner,  wont  we 
smash  his  daylights  in  !" 

And  the  one  with  his  hand  on  his  knife, 
concealed  in  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat,  and 
the  other  with  the  cord  of  the  slung-shot 
wound  about  his  wrist,  they  resumed  their 
hunt  in  the  track  of  Dermoyne. 

Unconscious  of  the  danger  which  strode 
stealthily  in  his  wake,  Dermoyne  clasped  the 
Red  Book  to  his  side  with  one  arm,  and  with 
the  other  supported  the  form  of  the  trem- 
bling Barnhurst. 

"  Yes,  we'll  go  home,"  muttered  the  false 
clergyman — "Home  !"  He  pronounced  the 
word  with  a  singular  emphasis,  like  a  man 
half  bereft  of  his  senses.  "  You  can  work 
your  vengeance  on  me  there,  for  the  worst 
has  come." 

Then,  for  a  long  time,  they  pursued  their 
way  in  silence,  turning  toward  the  East 
River,  as  they  drew  near  the  head  of  Broad- 
way. 

As  he  drew  near  liis  destination — near  the 
end  of  his  singular  march,  —  a  wild  hope 
agitated  the  heart  of  the  wretched  man,  half 
stupefied  as  he  was  by  despair.  It  was  his 
last  hope. 

"  This  man  has  feeling,"  he  thought,  "  and 
I  will  try  him." 

They  stood,  at  length,  in  the  hall  of  a 
quiet  mansion,  the  hanging  lamp  above  their 
heads  shedding  its  waving  light  into  their 
faces.  Barnhurst  had  entered  the  door  by  a 
night  key,  forgetting,  in  his  agitation,  to 
close  it  after  him.  Arthur  dropped  his  arm, 
and  they  confronted  each  other,  surveying 
each  other's  faces  for  the  first  time  in  four 
long  hours. 

It  was  a  singular  sight.  Both  lividly  pale, 
and  with  the  fire  of  widely  contrasted  emo- 
tions, giving  new  fire  to  their  gaze,  they 
silently  regarded  each  other.  The  tall  and 
angular  form  of  the  clergyman  was  in 
contrast  with  the  compact  figure  of  tlie 
mechanic:   and  Herman's  visage,  singular 


THROUGH  THE 

eyes,  aquiline  nose,  bland  complexion,  and 
hair  sleekly  disposed  behind  the  ears,  waa 
altogether  different  from  the  face  of  the 
mechanic  : — bold  forehead,  surmounted  by 
masses  of  brown  hair,  short  and  curling — 
clear  gray  eyes,  wide  mouth,  with  firm  lips, 
and  round  and  massive  chin  ;  you  might 
read  the  vast  difference  between  their  minds 
in  their  widely  contrasted  faces. 

"  Well,  I  am — home,"  said  Barnhurst, 
with  a  smile  hard  to  define. 

"I  will  sleep  in  your  room,"  answered 
Arthur,  quietly.  "  To-morrow,  at  ten,  we  go 
together  to  that  house." 

"Let  us  retire,  then,"  answered  Herman. 
The  hanging  lamp  lighted  the  stairway,  and 
disclosed  the  door  at  its  head. 

Herman,  with  the  hand  of  Arthur  on  his " 
arm,  led  the  way  up  the  staircase,  and 
paused  for  a  moment  at  the  door.  He  bent 
his  head  as  if  to  listen  for  the  echo  of  a 
sound,  but  no  sound  was  heard.  Herman 
gently  opened  the  door,  and  entered  —  fol- 
lowed by  Arthur — a  spacious  chamber,  dimly 
lighted  by  a  taper  on  the  mantle. 

"  Hush !"  said  Herman,  and  pointed  to  a 
small  couch,  on  which  a  boy  of  some  three 
years  was  sleeping  ;  his  rosy  face,  ruffled  by 
a  smile,  2nd  his  hair  lying  in  thick  curls  all 
about  his  j;now- white  forehead. 

"  Hush  !"  again  said  Herman,  and  pointed 
to  a  curtained  bed.  A  beautiful  woman  was 
sleeping  there,  with  her  sleeping  infant  cra- 
dled on  her  arm.  The  faces  of  the  mother 
and  babe,  laid  close  together  on  the  pillow, 


SILENT  CITY.  145 

looked  very  beautiful — almost  holy — in  tho 
soft  mysterious  light. 

"My  wife!  my  children!"  gasped  Her- 
man. As  he  spoke,  the  agitation  of  his  face 
was  horrible  to  look  upon. 

Dermoyne  felt  his  heart  leap  to  his  throat. 
He  could  not  convince  himself  that  it  was 
not  a  dream.  Again  and  again  he  turned 
from  the  face  of  Barnhurst  to  the  rosy  boy 
on  the  couch — to  the  beautiful  mother  and 
her  babe,  resting  there  in  the  half-broken 
shadows  of  the  curtained  bed, — and  felt  his 
knees  tremble  and  his  heart  leap  to  his  throat. 

And  in  contrast  with  this  scene  of  holy 
peace, — a  pure  mother,  sleeping  in  the  mar- 
riage chamber  with  her  children, — came  up 
before  him,  Alice,  and  her  bed  of  torture  in 
the  den  of  Madam  Resimer. 

"  This, — this,"  gasped  Barnhurst,  "  this  is 
why  I  couldn't  marry  Alice  !" 
Arthur  was  convulsed  by  opposing  emotions. 

"Devil  !"  he  uttered  with  set  teeth  and 
clenched  hands, —  "and  with  a  wife  and 
children  like  these,  you  could  still  plot  tho 
ruin  of  poor  Alice  !" 

"Husband,"  said  the  wife,  as  she  awoko 
from  her  sleep — "  have  you  come  at  last  ?  I 
waited  for  you  so  long  !" 

Leave  we  this  scene,  and  retrace  our  steps. 
The  revel  in  the  Temple  is  at  the  highest. 
The  masks  begin  to  fall.  Hark!  to  the 
whispers  which  mingle  softly  with  the 
clinking  of  champagne  glasses.  By  all 
means  let  us  enter  the  Temple. 


1 


MKT  FOURTH 


iMji.icia  In 

Ivi-Ti.!:!!  Mt 


■f,')0'r 


Hi!!!  ,{rtvr 


Iff  JHE  TEMPLE. 


f>i::-; 


r;GHAP[rEB.;L 


m  THE  TEMPLK-^TaE  CENTlJAi:*  CHAJtfBEB.; 

■  •t'r  was^  i\v6  e^elock;  on:  tlie  *rio-ra1ngibf  the 
24th  of  December,  18M;!wheni  ' Fr&nkf  kd 
'Nrirridless '  OTeH'  ith$  threshold  of;  a  magnificent: 
'•fcufcidinilj-iighlieid  halh^  -  ;     "iii  ■•'!  •  ; 
'  •  •  •  ■  Atth-ed  in  •  Mack  'velvet,  the  ■  'golden  '  cross 
'-'iipbniher' brek3t;  'a«d  Av.ith''la  white;  vail  lall- 
ing  like  a  snowflake  over  her  face  ;aiid  Taven 
•'  hair,  ghcl  ptfess'ed  hls  hfind  and  led'  hiin  for-; 
^ard;  ^  the'  light.  ■-'••Y'dii-  pa-rinotj^f by  ihe 
changes  of  his  colintetianGe,: 'trace  i the;. emo- 
tions now  busy  at  his  heart ;  for  his  face  is. 
■  jconcefele'd'fey  ft  mask;  a'  Gap>  with  a •d3"0(i)ping 
^JyliX-m^e;' shades  hi^'brovV  ;  :his  form  i-s  attiir'ed." 
'^in  '  a  iitbid  'of  black  velvety  ^gathered  to  Ihis- 
''waik  by  a  scarlet -Sttsh;  availing  collar 'dis-- 
'Aloises  his  throat  ;■  and  :there'  is:  a  w;hite  cross; 
upon  his  b'reai^f;!  Suspended  ftoni  his -neck;  iby. 
a  golden  chain.    His  brown  hair,  no  lonsrer 


BiEfCEMBER  24,  1844.  '  /.;-( i .  ^  r 

Hi;  " 'I am.-:|n  9i idrfcami .1^  Iwf, firpdv  ; ..  -.j, jj   , ri 

A  vast  and;dimly-iiffhied;.hftU»  ibvakien  ity 
I A  (rang«.;of/  miarli)le.  iCoUimns;*,.  '  piptwve^'  and 
: mirrors ^^iashing 'and , iglo^ving  Jil-ong.  the- lofty 
;  walls! ;  and .  fihe .  yery  ■ ; air ,  jn?;bvied-  wiU>;  the 
breath  of  . simmier,  the  fr^igtanoe  jof  . freshly 
.gftthiJred  ,flQ.w0rs.j  .vN:ear  ev/ersy  ,jGoluf3i\; Wiaa 
.placeid  :  a  ;  tables  covered:  \  \y.ith  fruit  •  and 
flowers, i^yith  goblets  and.. l^^jt^lp^.  of  rich  old 
wine  ;  and :  .on :  every: ,  table,  a . -lai^ip  ^with '  a 
clouded: shade;jMi^iiarOund;.a; light :,$t  once 
diln, .  mysterious;:  and :  vcfluptuqvis.  i  .  And. .  the 
JnirrOrs  :  reflijcted-  th$  ;scen9y  ,ia.raid  .^Mhose 
rsilfent:  magnittcencei  vFt-^nki;  and;  Niameless 

stood  alone..;, ,i  .•;,( 

:  :  V  ]^(5tr,';ipr , : flL, : ^Hc^S^kj'  fl^vit  '.in'!  r central 
chamber,-  6iE  i  the-  :T,emp]oj'!  ^he;,- wbiepered. 

Here,  shut ;  oiiit  from  the  \v^rld  :by  i  tUick 
ivv'alls,  -the  guQsts  "pf;  ■  tti'e  Tempha ,  iasscnible  ,at 
rd^iad  of -nigJit^aad  creaite:  ,fqri;.thern«elye*  a 
sort  of  fairy  world,  far  different  from  the 


wild  and  matted,  but  carefully  arranged  by  world  which  you  see  at  the  church  or  opera, 


a  woman's  hand,  falls  in  glossy  masses  to  his 
shoulders. 

"Stand  here,  my  knight  of  the  wdiite 
cross,  and  observe  some  of  the  mysteries  of 
our  Temple." 

For  a  moment  she  raised  her  vail,  and  her 
dark  eyes  emitted  rays  of  magnetic  fire,  and 
the  pressure  of  her  hand  made  the  blood 
bound  in  every  vein. 

They  stood  by  a  marble  pillar,  near  a 
table  on  which  was  placed  a  lamp  with  a 
clouded  shade, — a  table  loaded  with  fruits 
and  flowers,  with  goblets  and  with  bottles 
of  rich  old  wine. 

Nameless  could  not  repress  an  ejaculation 
as  he  surveyed  the  scene. 
(146) 


or  even  on  Broadway  on  a  sunshiny  day. 

There  was  a  touch  of  mockery  in  her  tone 
as  she  spoke. 

"But  do  not  these  guests,  as  you  call 
them,  know  each  other  ?"  whispered  Name- 
less. "Do  not  those  who  mingle  in  the 
orgie  of  the  night,  recognize  each  other 
when  the)'  meet  by  daylight  ?" 

"  Every  am^ocrrt^tc  gentleman  knows  the 
aristocratic  lady,  who  meets  him  within 
these  walls,"  replied  Frank.  "  Beyond  that 
nothing  is  known.  A  mask,  a  convenient 
costume,  hides  ever  face  and  form.  They 
all,  however,  know  the  Queen  of  the  Tem- 
ple/'— she  placed  her  hand  upon  her  breast; 
"  and  the  password,  without  which  no  one 


FROM  Mm;^I(^pj?|.  ,DAWX. 


mi 


issued  by  the  Queen  of  the  T(jri(^)le.[|,,j. 

iis'./f  jir..,.'  )  ;;:ji;v/   to  i>  )  Kh'il^:;.' 

pQjjtnt|qn.;»n4<.-tl^3t^v/' •.••>..)  -. ..;  |)..!,:-..  »  i.-. 

iSh^,pa«6Q4.;;  ivad.Kqjitiqle^^  sa>Y;her.bp^pm; 
hQaY.^j;ai?4;  •.tor4i:.the|  ;sjgh;,>yli^ch  .  es.p^jpe^ 
froa^;! her. lips,,      ;  .„.„.„i';      ;/  , 

<!'  IJ^it;  t:l>^.njglit. past,' you ;  w^ll,  .)?i4.  ^,4ieM, 
tOf;,$.C(?n(38. iJik,Q.;.t^s...^r^ver.^^!'  .,,>vh;ftpert;i<J, 
Nameless.    "You  rcmiimh^r.jp^T.^^^^el'^^ 

jSitft-g^W^tliTupatised  ..t,Uy  Jy^iil,;,.,h^r..C9UiI}te- 
nance,  in  all  its  impassioned  love,^r)es.s,,lay;^ 
op!.ei3i;tq;.l)W:gaz£>.:;i  ^Jer,.eyes,,fla^>|ie(l  iirigl^tly, 
vividliy,''altl^o,ug;b,' wet  ^vujt)^itJeaI$l,,^    .  ,  

J.ft.Yes/*  ah^i  .  re&pon^^e^  --*tM,l^'.lilkP•%. 
"  Thia;«ight  -p^pi,il;  3Yill.;Vitl;{^clic;W:  to.^pei^e.^. 
Ii);^.  thi.s  ;foreyef..!:;,.aii4i  s^ej;dre\yiliirfi  geptly 
to  lj.iar;b9som.-TT!'  XiOW  lifp;  bai^;  bp?.n;,  dark-r-', 
mine  dark  and  criminal.  But  there  is  hope  (9;^, 
usy,Q<ul;i:aii.TTr:bepe'  bej.oja.(^  th9se.  :.">yallSj  wjiere 
pftUiufeio^ii  i&,:iija8^ve4,.;in.,;%)\^^^  iii, 
some. far  .(Jislianit  fco^ij3^1>^re,  upplogged  ,l)y,, 
tlnti;  d^Mifc;  .ineiiipp-e?  pt.  slih,e.,.past,; -vyje.^,  >vill 
b^gia  lyp  fanftiv;,  am^-.s^gk , the, ,  blessing;  c)i. 
God,  in  a  career  of  faith,.  Qf.,jself-^pnial !''. 

j.'^A^pjd  ;;tl)sn,^,.|:r^^^V,'/,:  :P^<1 
**:S^<HVW 'Ci^er.Jje.  o^irs,.\xe.;WiU^d:evoie: 
i1j.4^,tiip  cej4epa|)jtion.,of  ..tlw;s^^        ha,w^  s}^-^^ 
%edliil?;^'USv,aBiLli^0^^  . 

/.M":thift;mx?^ejot,,p,;bu/pt.jof^^  frqw  an, 

a^j©iiai^ig;,chftna,bpr^.flL<^  ,t}i^  v^st. 

ttfi<l!flWdqwy,^)_a]l.j  Afl!i.,tbp  tbe;'^OHnd  Qf 
d^nfiipg„jiiipgle4,,^yijtb  t^'9.,?Py,.s;pTr-and,.i},9w 
an4:;tb.ep  -tlje.  musi9^,.^|id^  t|ie  .dance  .•\yere 
iiii,tQr;rvi.p^e4.>>f ,  t)ij^  eeJip .  9/ . j pyo.u3  ..yoiG.e,s.; .  , 

•,.j{;';T^.  guea^p, ^^f ! .tb^ ^Temple,'. ^i^e  ^ai^cing 
iil-^.ith^,;  ^^anqji^t  :.:Ch;apjibeE,j[,.,said  Frank.. 
".M^tska^  i ,.a,iid. ;  .y a^bd,^ ,  -  sbi^t  ^  Q,ut  ,'ij:om,',  X]}!^, 
•WflrJ4  '^X  AinpeDi^ti^able..)v-ajls,,  tl^ey^^  .<rPPi7 
mencing  one  of  tlio&e.  Qrg|§^,,,-\vliicb,  ?^;W|Oke 
the .. qcl^qes ,  qf/.  iYjaticf 9^  ijL  tbp.  (ja^s  of 
Pope  Borgia."     '  .  .^-j 

-JL  .eur<iaia  w^^tJ3TO^t,a8.ide,— ^momcA^^ 
bJa^e;  Cjf  Ijg-ht  rji^J^et^  into  .tj^e  "vast  Ji^li,rT» 
aii4n P)<is\;e4 ; .. ?iV^,w\^^f  .the    gju.esjtp. , pf  tjtie 
Temple"  came  pQ.uri;ig,,iutO:  tbe  pljv?;^.   ^  , 


J^i\R:\q|^'ss^,  ill  ^  sij  \vhisper..  "  Are ,^ we  indeed  j 
in  .J^J,e\y:.^.ofk,  iq  ^the.jupeteqnljb  century.^?-;-;; . 
or..j^  ;i^  j^_g9;j,^e^  ,i^  .the  ^^daj^s  qf/the  ;.P.of- ^ 

.,  .^-nd ,  fpr^  a  iCjNY  jm_9jme^  ts,  .^G;  .stood ,  si4e|  ^  by^  ^ 
sidj[^,,,^yitl)..^^rank|_.  in,^,pie  ..^hj^d.ovy^  .  of  .the  j 
c^u^tra|l  .piUar^  xvatchii^g-,  ;thq:  s,ceue.  jn  dum^b^ 
,  ama:?ei)ient,   j'J^.alHiiig,  two,  by.^ tw 
fqi;t^:;^  meiji .  ^ridi  women  ,.in^  all— the  guests  , 
,  glided.. tbrpu^h  .tbe  yqluj)tupU(;5  ligbtr^and. 
sbad(j^w^  pq .-.IcifS.. voluptuous— o,f  tbe  central  ^ 
chamber.     It  was,  indeed,'  a  stran^e.^  ap4* 
niq.tlpy  .crp.wcl !    Pqpe^  and  cardinals,.  ,  ai]d 
m_qi;k§  . .^n.d  nuns^.,  i^^in^led   witli  .knights,^ ^ 
caliphs  and  dancing' girl;?.:.  .Tb,e  ,  effect,  o^^ 
their  .rich  .and  varied,  .qostiirn^s,  .d.ecp.ened  hy 
the  soft  light,  was  impressive,  dazxlin^.; 
popp  jqd ,  a.  dancijig.  girl  \)y  thq,  haijd;— a.chri^- ' 
tian  knight;  ehci.rcled,  the  slender  waigt  qf  a, 
hf)Ufi,.^^ac;  ^ta|,qiy  ..(3a,rdiAal'  disc9urjsed.ii),  tpyy.i 
tones  with' a  staid  (:j\iakev^ss,,  w.Ii:08e..en 
fqrmjbD^t  ^pn^!.qf..its.9har^ls^    her  sey^fely 
n.e^t,.,attir^  { S^.V^V:^*- 
Alraschid,  unawed  by  the  precept^i.  of  the. 
prqj|het^  supported. ; i^. .  vajlied.  abbess^,  on .  i^is 
rqyal^  .arm^,  .. .  C,qntrast;S  .like   these.  _gl id e(|^ 
arn^n^  ,tb^  j  p.niarsr-r:n.ow^  in  -IjgHt^  ..now  "jnj 
shadqw; ; .  .echoes  .of  ^softlj^  -vyhispered,  cqnyer- . 
sation  .fill.ed  .the  haU  .with.  a  nQUsicjal. murmur^  | 
and  .the;  !  mirrors  aloqg  thg.  wa^lls"  reflected ^ 
th.e  picture^^T^the., fables,  .lq?uiled..wilh  v.iauiis 
and  .flowers— tbe  rich  variety  .oif  cpstume--j, 
the  pillars' of  .white  .ma^^^  li^t  andj 

shadqw,.  :whicb  ^9,yq:  new  witcheryjto/ithe. 
sqeiie.  .   r.,..  ji...^.  .;.,.,,.*  ,  i 

(There  w^ere  certain  of  ithe  masicers.  wlio* ' 
in  a,n  qspecia;  manner,  riveted  the,  attention 

of.^Nameless,,    -^^    ^  ;  ,  ' 

■  4- .  .^nap  of ,  sta.|i^l/y-;  .presencqj  and ,  _  ro^yal' 
st.rijd^,  flttir^4  -in  a  tunic  of.  IJVirf|le  ^sill^,  with-] 
a^i  Qiitjer.  tun;c..  of ,  scarlet,  velvet,  edged  witli^ 
wliitft  .efpii,fi,e-r-h(:|se^  aIso  .  qf  ,  SGaHpt7:-:and 
sh.qes^ fa^tjeped,  with  diamond  buckles,.  .Even; 
had  tlie  mask  failed  to  hide  his  face,,.jit. 
\\M3,iild,,ha<v.e,.|)e,eu.  cpncea-led  .b^i^  the.  clji|s.t.er 
.of  snowy.  plu?Qes.. which  nqdd^d  jrom.  hj^^ 

"  Behold' i^qderiok  j  ipqrgia  J'tV.  whj§pere^ 
ii^^a^i^Jc,  ^4Jie.m^lved  ^ass.ed  ajong  wjth-.i'is 
istately  stride.  ,  ,  ,, 


148  IN  THE 

Lucretia  was  masked,  but  the  mask  which 
hid  the  beauty  of  her  face,  could  not  conceal 
the  richness  of  her  dark  hair,  which  con- 
trasted so  vividly  with  the  whiteness  of  her 
neck  and  shoulders.  A  single  lily  bloomed 
in  solitary  loveliness  in  the  blackness  of  her 
hair ;  her  form  was  encased  in  a  white  robe, 
which  adapting  itself  in  easy  folds  to  the 
shape  of  her  noble  bust,  is  girded  lightly  to 
her  waist  by  a  scarlet  scarf.  From  the  wide 
sleeve,  (edged  like  the  skirt  with  scarlet), 
you  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  magnificent  hand 
and  arm. 

"  Worthy,  my  dear  Lucretia,  to  rule  hearts 
by  your  beauty  and  empires  by  your  intel- 
lect ! "  said  lloderick. 

"  Ah,  your  holiness  flatters,"  was  the  whis- 
pered reply. 

"  Her  shape,  indeed,  is  worthy  of  Lucretia 
Borgia,"  said  Frank,  as  Roderick  Borgia  and 
his  daughter  passed  by  the  central  pillar,  and 
disappeared  in  the  shadows. 

"Does  she  inherit  the  morals  as  well  as 
the  beauty  of  the  woman-fiend  whose  name 
she  bears  ?  " 

Ere  Frank  could  reply,  another  couple, 
arm  in  arm,  approached  the  central  pillar.  A 
Dulky  cardinal  in  a  scarlet  hat  and  robe,  hold- 
ing by  the  arm  a  slender  youth  attired  in 
modern  style,  in  frock  coat  and  trowsers  of 
blue  cloth, — the  trowsere  displaying  limbs  of 
unrivaled  symmetry,  and  the  frock  coat  but- 
toned to  the  throat  over  an  all  too-prominent 
bust.  The  cardinal  wore  a  golden  cross  on 
his  brawny  chest,  and  the  brown  hair  of  the 
slender-waisted  youth  wa.s  gathered  neatly 
beneath  a  velvet  cap,  surmounted  by  a  single 
snowy  plume.  It  was  pleasant  to  note  the 
affection  which  existed  between  the  grave 
cardinal  and  his  youthful  friend  !  Not  satis- 
fied with  suffering  the  head  of  the  graceful 
boy  to  repose  on  his  shoulder,  the  cardinal 
encircled  that  slender  waist  with  his  flow- 
ing scarlet  sleeve !  And  thus  whispering 
softly — 

"  Dearest  Julia ! "  said  the  cardinal,  "  what 
think  you  of  that  doctrinal  point  ?  " 

**  Dearest  doctor !  what  if  my  husband 
knew  ?"  softly  replied  the  youth. 

They  passed  by  the  central  pillar,  from 
the  light  into  the  shadow. 

"  How  name  you  these  ?  "  asked  Nameless. 

"  Loo,  tho  Tenth,  and  his  nephew,"  was 


TEMPLE. 

the  answer  of  Frank, — "  but  see  here  !  A 
monk  and  nun  !  " 

The  monk  was  tall ;  his  hood  and  robe 
fashioned  of  white  cloth  bordered  with  red ; 
the  hood  concealed  his  face,  and  the  robe 
fell  in  easy  folds  from  his  shoulders  to  hi/ 
sandaled  feet.  The  nun  was  attired  in  a 
hood  and  robe  of  snow-white  satin  ;  the  hood 
concealed  her  face  and  locks  of  gold  ;  but 
the  robe,  although  loose  and  flowing,  could 
not  conceal  the  rounded  outlines  of  her  shape. 
Her  naked  feet  were  encased  in  delicate  slip- 
pers of  white  satin.  And  clinging  with  both 
hands  to  the  arm  of  the  White  Monk,  the 
White  Nun  went  by. 

"  Beverly,  are  you  sure  ?  "  Nameless  heard 
her  whisper. 

"  Sure  ? "  replied  the  White  Monk,  in  a 
tone  that  rose  above  a  whisper, — "He  is 
false — false — you  have  the  proofs  !  "  And 
they  went  from  the  light  into  the  gloom. 

"  She  trembles,  and  her  voice  falters,"  said 
Frank,  observing  the  form  of  the  retiring 
nun. 

"  Did  she  not  say  Beverly  f  "  asked  Name- 
less, a  tide  of  recollections  rushing  upon  his 
brain.    "  That  name — surely  I  heard  it, — " 

"  Look  ! "  interrupted  Frank,  pressing  his 
arm, —  "An  oddly  assorted  couple  as  ever 
went  arm  in  arm." 

And  a  little  Turk,  dressed  in  a  scarlet 
jacket  and  blue  trowsers,  with  an  enormous 
turban  on  his  head,  approached  the  central 
pillar,  leaning  on  the  arm, — ^nay,  clutching 
the  hand  of  a  tall  lady,  whose  face  and  form 
were  completely  concealed  by  an  unsightly 
robe  of  black  muslin ;  a  garment  which 
seemed  to  have  been  assumed,  not  so  much 
for  the  sake  of  ornament,  as  for  disguise. 
Gathering  the  robe  across  her  head  and  face 
with  one  hand,  she  glided  along  ;  her  other 
hand, —  apparently  not  altogether  to  her 
liking, — grasped  by  her  singular  companion. 
As  the  "  Lady  in  Black  "  passed  by,  Name- 
less heard  these  words, — 

"  Havana !  A  most  delightful  residence," 
whispered  the  Turk. 

The  "  Lady  in  Black  "  made  no  reply, — 
did  not  even  bend  her  head ;  but  passed 
along,  her  robe  brushing  the  tunic  of  Name- 
less, as  she  glided  from  view. 

Why  was  it  that  through  every  nerve. 
Nameless  felt  a  sensation  which  cannot  be 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


149 


described,  but  which  one  cannot  feel  but  once 
in  a  lifetime, — and  once  felt,  thrilling  from 
heart  to  brain,  from  brain  to  the  remotest 
fiber  of  being,  can  never  be  forgotten  ?  A 
sensation,  as  though  the  hand  of  one  long 
since  dead,  had  touched  his  cheek,  as  though 
the  presence  of  one  long  since  given  to  the 
grave,  had  come  to  him  and  overshadowed 
him  ? 

"  Who  is  that  lady  ?  "  he  whispered, — 
resting  one  hand  against  the  pillar,  for  a  sud- 
den faintness  seized  him, — "  That  lady  who 
is  matched  with  a  companion  so  grotesque  ?" 

"  She  may  be  young  or  old,  fair  or  hideous, 
but  her  name  I  cannot  tell,"  responded 
Frank.  "  As  for  her  companion, — the  dimin- 
utive Turk  who  clutches  her  hand,  and  to 
whose  soft  pleadings  she  does  not  seem  to 
listen  with  the  most  affectionate  interest, — 

his  name  is  "    Frank  bent  her  mouth 

close  to  the  ear  of  Nameless. 

"  His  name  ?  "  he  interrupted. 

"Is  one  which  cannot  but  excite  bitter 
memories.    Israel  Yorke,  the  Financier  1 " 

At  that  name,  linked  with  the  events  of 
the  previous  night,  and  with  the  somber 
memories  of  other  years.  Nameless  started, 
and  an  ejaculation  escaped  his  lips. 

"Israel  Yorke!  and  in  this  place?" 

"  Yes, — and  why  not  ?  "  responded  Frank, 
bitterly.  "What  place  so  fitting  for  the 
•windier, — pardon  me.  Financier  ?  Is  it  not 
well  that  the  money  which  by  day  is  wrung 
from  the  hard  earnings  of  the  poor,  should 
be  spent  at  night  in  debauchery  and  pollu- 
tion ?  " 

"  From  the  bank  to  the  brothel,"  thought 
Nameless,  but  he  did  not  breathe  that 
thought  aloud. 

Frank  silently  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
lifted  her  vail.  There  was  a  magic  in  the 
pressure  and  the  look.  Holding  the  vail  in 
such  a  manner  that  he  might  gaze-  freely 
upon  her  countenance,  while  it  was  hidden 
from  all  other  eyes,  she  looked  at  him  long 
and  steadfastly. 

"Do  you  regret  your  pledge?"  she  said, 
measuring  every  word. 

"  Regret !  "  he  echoed, — for  the  touch,  the 
look,  the  voluptuous  atmosphere  of  her  very 
presence,  made  him  forget  the  past,  the  pros- 
pects of  the  future, — everything,  but  the 
woman  whose  soul  shone  upou  him  from 


her  passionate  eyes  : — "  Can  you  think  it  ? 
Regret !    Never  !  " 

"  Then  this  is  my  last  night  in  the  Tem- 
ple. 0,  my  heart,  my  soul  is  sick  of  scenes 
like  these  !  "  She  glanced  around  the  hall, 
crowded  by  the  maskers, — "  'To-morrow, — " 
bending  gently  to  him,  until  he  felt  her 
breath  upon  his  cheek,  "  to-morrow, — " 

"  To-morrow  !  "  echoed  a  strange  voice  ; 
"  but,  my  lady,  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you 
to-night." 

They  turned  with  the  same  impulse,  and 
beheld  the  unbidden  speaker,  in  the  form  of 
a  Spanish  hidalgo,  dressed  in  black  velvet, 
richly  embroidered  with  gold.  He  held  his 
mask  before  his  face,  and  a  group  of  dark 
plumes  shaded  his  brow. 

She  started  at  the  voice,  and  Nameless  felt 
her  hand  tremble  in  his  own. 

"  In  a  moment  I  will  join  you  again,"  she 
whispered  to  Nameless  ;  "now,  Count,  I  am 
at  your  service." 

And  leaving  Nameless  by  the  pillar,  she 
took  the  Count  by  the  arm,  and  with  him 
disappeared  in  the  shadows  of  the  hall. 

Leaning  against  the  pillar,  and  folding  his 
arms  across  his  breast, — over  the  white  cross 
which  glittered  there, — Nameless  awaited 
her  return  with  evident  anxiety.  He  was 
devoured  by  contending  emotions.  The 
fascination  with  which  this  beautiful  woman 
had  enveloped  him, — suspicion  of  the  stran- 
ger who  had  called  her  from  his  side, — tho 
strange  and  varied  scene  before  him, — these 
occupied  him  by  turns  ;  and  then,  even  amid 
the  excitement  and  fascination  of  the  pres- 
ent, some  faces  Ci  the  past  looked  vividly  in 
upon  his  soul ! 

And  while  a  scene  is  transpiring  between 
Frank  and  the  Count,  which  will  hereafter 
have  a  strong  influence  upon  the  fate  of 
Nameless,  let  us,  for  an  instant,  stand  with 
him  by  the  central  pillar,  and  gaze  upon  the 
mysterious  hall. 

Mild  lights,  rich  shadows,  the  ceiling  sup- 
ported by  marble  pillars,  the  maskers  in 
their  contrasted  costumes,  and  the  mirrors 
reflecting  all.  The  stately  Roderick  and  the 
enticing  Lucretia  are  conversing  earnestly  iu 
yonder  recess, — the  White  Monk  and  tho 
White  Nun  stand  face  to  face  near  yonder 
pillar,  her  lip  pressing  the  champagne  glass 
offered  by  his  hand, — Leo  the  Tenth,  paces 


156' 


slowh-  -frtjiia  the;  midk.U«-of  -the  hall  .to...the  ,.the  .pQsitji<?ii.  qf  -a,  ,rp,specjt,9d^.if  ; ijat.  yirt^^ 
mirror  and  back  again,  the ' head-  of  bils.  .bie-  ii^voraaji.  .  ..An^.-tliis.b^^  s^'ail  not"^.. 

lovefd'  bdpbetv  :oii;^hra.  •sho.ulideEj':  i^T: -waist  lea-v^,..!^  Uoiiso.save      jpur  l^usband. 
eneirded '^'by-  iiisiiai-ni'-;  vand  r.yicitderi  ,'dpart |  pp;ar  it  |  ^:3D<>.ypa.hear,ij>.e,— ?'  -V 
frortt  'alb-6tii:ei'«,  stands- .'the  .•Ladyiu..Black,.j:;  IJj^.ivoice  grexj^thjpker,  husk^ler^he se^^ 
witlr-her  xiimihutiv-e.  lover^ievea-  t/he  .T•Urk^^:he^.  by  thQ;.>vrist,,.  . , .  .  ,    •    ,,•  :,.  .    ..  ;.    '  • 

:  V.Jj'athftr.!.';.  she  .g^ppd.,..aa,.thQugii.  her,.> 


kneeling  at  hbr-feet.  .'Kaimeless.'obseryes.ftU: 
these  \\'rth  an  : especial'  interest. .  !AiS,.fQf  ;,the 
rest,'  'th(3re  -  is  a  •  Pope  sharing  ati  orange  •  \Vjith 
a  d^inctng-^giTl',-a  ^Kmight  .  halvihg  ja  bunolx  oXi 
grapes  with  a  houri,  a  Cardinal  taking. w.ine. 
with- -a  Quakeress:;;  and:  the-  .saiatlyiAbb.Qsg, 
yonde-r,-  is  teaching'  the-  gra^-y^e  .Haroun,  Aiiasr, 
chid -how  tOfieitia  '^philojKODai!:?^.:i 

Truly,  -niy  life -.is ..one  .of  adiVfintjur^I.^^ 
mftttered  •  Kamelessy  •  observiing ;  :the .  .fantastic. 
Last  nisht 


pi-Qud-.^prnt^  Ayas.cQwe^  .by  the  f^f-oc.ious  de- ..^ 
termination  of  his  manner.  V 
'  ."-JHe  :shali._  »ot :  leave  tl)is  ,housg  say^^  £13 
yo^r. .husband,; ;  :Yoii  say  that  he.  ,is^  fascinated, . ., 
with  .yo.u,.,an4.}fou^at:£Fst"  sight,  ^w^^^^  . 
^V•eiU.,       .  ha$,  s^yenty-ope  .t^qijsand.  dolr  . 
Jars.. now  in., his  pqs^Q^ion,  (no  matter  ho>y 
gainj^d),.  a?i-d  ^^,1^^^  Sp^h  of  -.I^ec^mber^ 
is,  -tOrplp^r.o.WtJX^??.V?M^.^i^^^•^?^ ,  hecome  the 


scene.  "  i^ast  nignt,  arrested.  .a«  a.  thief,-rr3-;l  possessor  of  .^he  jVan.Huyden  estate,  a  richer  ,, 
fevV:fijghisisiiK:e-'the  tejQivn-t  iof  a  mad--h^^^  than  Girard^and.  Astor  together;  siy,^ 


and  to-night  in  asGene.lik-e  this.l  /s  Tcnift.or- 
roW-nvghti^ta/iaj^and  t*i7i€ref  ?  .-,  ■• 
"To-inoOTow night  t  ;  r.;.-.-J'..,i-.  /  <■..',  ■ 
Meanwhile,  in  a  dark  recess^  .wh^- mirror 
sc&rcfe  -Heiflected'  a  isihgle.'ray ,  .Fraiifc,  .tr^mblipg 
arid^iagitated,--:sto(D<L  faca  to  face  ,  witslfi;  th$ 
Count. ■  1 '  His-  tinafc'k  'Wasi  -laid  ^sitie;  ; in  rthe 
diiri^  Mgbfc  'sh6-  savp:-iiisifacei  stamped-. with: -xpi 

UHttSUal  etiefgy^  V  ,.c.,. I         ;-..-.ov,c  ;•..?•! 

i «.  Yoti-'  '■  wish'  to  sfieak,  to-  fine  ?>  'h  she  gaid*  .  i 
All'  ■hom*'',fig^  'L-caniQ 'to:  this  housfe,-^eu« 
t^ri^^  your  chamber  UMsiummoned, : and  tO; -my 
uttef  sirT'i)rf'3e  foii«d  this  :youfflgtmjyni  :thexQ<  ..i 
overheard'  'th-6  Jiledge^  which- yba.>  e:5sehaBged,;. 
afld  ■  Tio^  -fet  -tis-'hfitcJ  a*  fair  i ujidersitandimgi; 
H-a&'  h^"pTOtrtisfe'(l,^h  as  >  h^e^^pl  igh-fcerd :  his  word:.?- 
Ilitr^' yoli'  aoce^red^him- '4.^Iiiis Ispoke^tbe; 
Ckfvttii,  "in'aAoW-'vbi^eV-'-"'  ihI 

' ' "  lie '  ha<s,  •  father,  t^eipiied  iFrank:  ;•.  and;  X 
have  accepted  him."  ;  'ii"-:  '.'ii 

^•'**-W5i^n~:arldl'Wl1^r^?  'disked-.  th»'  GouDt, 
oF'Goli-Tkrlki5n,"as<'yOu  pi-ease^h  in..;  .•.;r'/-! 

^"  As  sobtt-a9*I'  leave' thisi^plaq^,. -and  amrthei: 
t^iiarit  ^f  -  a-  AtMnc;'''repiisdi  Enank-  hea'.yo'w^: 
mikWYn^  '<ml;th^ii  ,wdrd;  so;ija«%vuto  ^iajern^' 
'^Juyine!''  .-mo.-.vjVw.; 

-'?'©iiti^lkerp"  feaid  -l^Aiil*lscrn,i  a«d  .h^ 
was  •d'e«p"^and-''  hu9kyji'iii^i'Cating  vpowerfiui 
eiTiO^tixM^,  -^'t  hflv«  afe^W'.  'rt^rd&  tO'Say  .io-yQti,;.] 
wili  d'o'W^ll'io'.heed'  thfefc.  .iTli;e;:dramfti 


.ten.  Astoj-s^and.  Gi^^  . ^9?  9l"  that-..  As  f 

hig ;  wife,  -.ypur  .ppsitiop .  will  be  that , .of  a 
.queen ;  and  as  for.myself,,!  >vi  11  sacrifice,  vaj/.^ 
..hopes  as  the  brother  pf  the^  testatpr^  ip  order 
to.behpld;you  th.e.  queerily  wife  pf  .that  ies- 
itator^  Bpn..   Yqii,|iear  .ine-..?  ■'. .  ,.| 
.    f,'.,I  dp,',' .gasped  F^apk; ...... 

•;",B.iii.t4here;  n'^ust;  be  no  mistake,^ ipark,.you,:.j 
;n9;  ,'.sljp,;  betw.eea  the.  cu,p  and  the  lip,  'the 
time  is  too. :riear.,  to.tru^t, /this.-niatte^  the,, 
remotest  •;  choice.. ;  pf  ,  failu^e._  ^.  ..He  -  must ;  be 
iypi(Xi;<ht^sband.;^re.)]o-l«ayes,t^^    hpuse,  o.r,j-ri" 
.  ',A\Ot-Sr  fal^r^d.l'rjvi;^,,  ''1,///  "'  ? 

•  ,V|  Pri-rrm  ark..y  .pu,.  •  I- dp .  np  t.  .threaten  .but .  I. 
;  ai^ ,  ,§p^akiBg  Fa^e,r-:rpr,  >v^l  .  T^ot  '.fl^j>ecir,^ 
op,1h.P:29fch.<?f-,i??ec>ejiiibqYi"^  ,...,.1 

H.e  ^■Q.t,/ij?£^(?r /  ..^V l^at  iPi^^P-.  IP*?,  j 
her  voice  suddenly  changed  ;  she  laid  tli^r. ,. 
hftthd-ugion-.iiisjsliQuli^er...  J\I)^  ypu  ynes,n.to 
sayutha|^!y.ou...wiU,7^i^r(Z«r  hjip,  ;dear  fath.9r|?!',/ 
"He  will  not  appear,!  said,,  ^^nd.  say,  it:  . 
again^'f ■  ibe  I regynjk j3dj.; in;  tlip.^apap.  4,ei e^mijpi^d 
v.OApe  j::*:';an(|...the  j.iiherj-tapqe  of;;U^is..i,ncre^ij':r 
bliC  0&tat§  ..-Ny ill ,  ifa).l,  ^  pi  ther,  ^tp  .t^ e  se.yeq,,  .pr,  to, . 
m;^^^lf,.;t.l;iie  Wtl^ftT,  .^T,^^^  .,y,p_i^,..^listen;p^,  * 

;.  .'AJvyWi  lirpt#er,2,«'  ;.e,?ho.e4  .F^an^^ 
amazed.  .    >  - . 

w:^^X9ftl.-;twi-ii,,l^fPithe^,,,.,TJ^Q.  .ti^m.e_;s  _sJ^ort, 
and  we  must  put  what  »;^.  have, tp  sa^jin  the^^ 


of  'tX^I-cfttty^One'Veaps-d^aW  to-^a-  claie.;  uThei  fev^^^tl  worc^,':  ^Xsi^iMBPF^^^- :  7iiS^?'.::^«^* 
tgi^inatioH'-<>t''1the-fiffeK  acb^ilird'eeidelBay/]  brp^,h6rriC^l^lW..o^  u.:;' if iwv    • , 


fatfe' and  •ysurs:  ■■*:-T?his'&o|/  is.!now;alF6o6t:thjft* 
dttl^robstadie-botweci^!  n^yselfi-an^  .'na-ycbw^lh'-; 
<jjtfg'^b©iiu(3ied'  J^ealtblj-and  ibeiwedn/^f  oiu,  ao^ , 


^■U-doiy^u  ^       ^    ^ 

v,t;Hje;.Tvaa,;n9t-^.y;pi\yir9the.^^^  alth,ough  jou^ 
\y:«i»;al,yy^y3,tawiht,,^;/eg^  :fev,^^JV:ffer 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


He  was  the  twin  brother  of  the  boy  who 
now  leans  against  yonder  pillar.  On  the 
night  of  his  birth  (wishing  to  destroy  every 
obstacle  between  myself  and  my  brother's 
•  estate),  I  stole  him  from  his  mother's  arms. 
But  when  I  learned  the  details  of  my  broth- 
er's singular  will,  I  resolved  to  rear  him  as 
my  own,  and  keep  him  in  reserve  until  the 
25th  of  December,  1844,  when  thoroughly 
under  my  influence,  and  yet  backed  by  un- 
deniable proofs  of  his  paternity,  he  would 
appear  and  claim  his  father's  estate.  It  was 
not  until  1832,  that  I  learned  that  he  had  a 
twin  brother  in  existence ;  you  know  what 
pains  I  took  to  sweep  all  proof  of  his  exist- 
ence from  the  memory  of  man  ;  and  it  was 
only  last  night  that  I  learned  that  this  twin 
brother  (now  standing  by  yonder  pillar),  was 
still  in  being.  Now,  Frank,  is  the  case 
clear  ?  The  one  whom  you  were  taught  to 
call  your  brother  Gulian,  and  to  regard  as 
lost,  is  neither  your  brother  nor  is  he  lost. 
He  is  living,  and  at  my  will,  on  the  25th  of 
December,  1844, — to-morrow, — will  appear 
in  place  of  yonder  youth,  unless  the  mar- 
riage takes  place  at  once." 

Frank  was  utterly  confounded.  Well  she 
remembered  the  revelation  which  Nameless 
made  while  in  the  clairvoyant  state  ;  that 
his  mother  had  given  birth  to  two  children, 
one  of  whom  had  been  secreted  by  the  father, 
the  other  stolen  by  the  uncle,  but  that  the 
lost  boy,  whom  she  had  been  taught  to 
regard  as  her  brother  Gulian,  was  one  of 
these  twins,  was  the  brother  of  Nameless, — 
this  was  indeed  a  revelation,  an  overwhelm- 
ing surprise.  For  a  moment  she  was  silent ; 
her  brain  throbbed  painfully. 

"But  how  am  I  to  believe  this  story  ?" 
"You  can  disbelieve  it,  if  you  like,"  re- 
sponded her  father  drily,  "  and  risk  the  con- 
sequences— " 

"But  will  not  the  marriage  be  as  cer- 
tain to-morrow,  the  day  after,  nay  a  week 
hence, — "  she  faltered. 

"Girl!  you  will  drive  me  mad, — "  he 
^  clatched  her  by  the  wrist: — "nothing  is 
certain  that  is  not  accomplished — " 

She  felt  the  blood  mount  to  her  cheek, 
I  and  her  heart  swell  in  her  breast : 

"Have  you  no  shame?"  she  said  and 

10 


flung  his  hand  from  her  wrist — "Do  you 
forget  what  you  have  made  me  ?  How  can 
I,  knowing  what  I  am,  what  you  have  made 
me,  urge  him  to  hasten  this  marriage  ?  Have 
you  no  shame  ?  '  Come,  I  am  lost  and 
fallen,'  shall  I  speak  thus  to  him,  '  I  was 
sold  into  shame  by  my  parents,  when  only 
fourteen  years  old.  But  you  must  marry 
me  ;  to-night ;  at  once  ;  my  father  says  so  ; 
he  knows  best ;  he  sold  me ;  and  wants 
your  fortune  !'  do  you  wish  me  to  speak  thus 
to  him,  father  dear  ?" 

It  was  now  his  turn  to  tremble.  The 
proud  spirit  of  her  mother,  (before  he  had 
degraded  that  mother,)  spoke  again  in  the 
tone,  in  the  look  of  her  daughter.  He  bit 
his  lip,  and  ground  his  teeth. 

"Frank,  Frank,  pity  me, — I  am  despe- 
rate, but  it  is  for  your  sake  '."  he  cried,  chang- 
ing his  method  of  attack — "  Spare  me  the 
commission  of  a  new  crime, — spare  me !  I 
do  not  threaten,  I  entreat." 

Wringing  her  hands  within  his  own,  he 
dragged  her  deeper  into  the  shadows  of  the 
recess. 

"Behold  me  at  your  feet;"  he  fell  upon 
his  knees  ;  "  the  father  on  his  knees  at  his 
daughter's  feet ;  the  father  already  steeped 
in  crime,  beseeches  that  daughter  to  save 
him  from  the  commission  of  a  new  crime  ; 
to  save  him  by  simply  pursuing  her  own 
happiness.'^ 

Frank  was  fearfully  agitated ;  she  drew 
her  father  to  his  right.  "W^hen  do  you 
wish  the  marriage  to  take  place  ?"  she  said 
in  a  faltering  tone. 

"At  once, — for  your  sake, — " 

"  But  the  clergyman, — " 

"Dr.  Bulgin  is  here.  If  you  consent  I 
will  summon  him  to  your  chamber.  The 
ceremony  will  take  place  there. 

"  AVait,"  she  whispered  ;  "  I  will  see  him. 
If  I  drop  my  'kerchief,  or  take  the  cross 
from  his  neck  all  is  right." 

She  glided  from  her  father's  side,  ana 
passing  along  the  hall,  among  the  maskers, 
soon  stood  by  the  side  of  Nameless  once 
more. 

Tarleton  watched  her  as  she  went;  watched 
her  as  she  confronted  Nameless ;  and  while 
her  back  was  toward  him,  endeavored,  even 
through  the  distance,  to  mark  the  result  of 
her  mission,,  from  the  changes  of  the  coim- 


152 


IN  THE  TEMPLE. 


tenance  of  Nameless.  Tarleton's  form  was 
concealed  by  the  hangings  of  the  recess,  but 
his  face,  projecting  from  its  shadow,  was 
touched  with  faint  light  ;  light  that  only 
rendered  more  haggard  and  livid,  its  already 
haggard  and  livid  lineaments.  How  earnest- 
ly he  watched  for  the  anticipated  sign  !  It 
was  not  made.  He  clutched  the  hangings 
with  both  hands. 

It  had  been  a  busy  night  with  him.  He 
had  taken  Ninety-One  to  the  rooms  of  3'oung 
Evelyn  Somers,  and  placed  the  convict  in 
one  room,  while  the  dead  body  of  his  own 
victim,  rested  in  the  other ;  thence  he  had 
passed  to  the  library  of  Somers,  the  father, 
and  held  a  pleasant  chat  with  him ;  and 
from  thence  to  the  counting-room  of  Israel 
Yorke,  where  he  had  set  Blossom  on  the 
track  of  Ninety-One.  And  from  the  coun- 
ting-room of  Israel  Yorke,  (after  a  deed  or 
two  which  may  hereafter  be  explained)  he  had 
repaired  once  more  to  the  house  of  the  mer- 
chant prince,  in  time  to  find  Ninety-One  ac- 
cused of  the  murder  of  young  Evelyn  Somers. 
He  had  rushed  to  the  room  of  Ninety-One, 
determined  to  avenge  the  murder  of  his 
friend,  and  to  his  great  astonishment,  found 
that  Ninety-One  had  escaped  by  a  secret 
door.  Of  course,  the  gallant  Colonel  knew 
nothing  of  that  door  !  Then  he  had  witness- 
ed the  death  scene  of  the  merchant-prince, 
and  after  threatening  the  boy,  Gulian,  he  had 
returned  to  the  Temple,  brooding  all  sorts 
of  schemes,  big  with  all  kinds  of  elaborate 
deviltry ;  and  had  discovered,  to  his  real 
surprise.  Nameless  in  his  daughter's  chamber ! 
Discovered  that  Frank  was  in  love  with 
Nameless,  and  Nameless  fascinated  by  Frank. 
A  busy  night,  gallant  Colonel !  Well  may 
you  clutch  the  hangings  with  both  hands, 
and  watch  for  the  falling  of  the  'kerchief, 
or  the  lifting  of  the  cross  ! 

*'  They  are  talking, — talking,  —  zounds  ! 
Why  does  she  not  give  the  sign  ?  That 
sign  given  and  all  my  difficulties  are  at  an 
end  !  The  seven  heirs,  Martin  F aimer,  the 
estate,  all  are  in  my  power  1" 

As  these  words  escaped  the  Colonel's  lips, 
two  figures  approached  :  one  a  knight  in 
blue  armor,  (something  like  unto  the  stage 
image  of  the  Ghost  of  Hamlet's  father,)  and 
the  other  in  buff  waistcoat,  wide-skirted 
coat,  ruffles,  cocked  hat,  and  buckskin  small 


clothes, — supposed  altogether  to  resemble  a 
gentleman  of  the  old  school.  The  blue 
knight  and  the  gentleman  of  the  old  school 
were  moderately  inebriated  :  even  to  a  sinu- 
ousness  of  gait,  and  a  tremulousness  of  the 
knees. 

"  I  say  Colonel,  wliat — what  news  ?"  hic- 
cupped the  knight. 

"Yes,  yes,"  remarked  the  gentleman  of 
the  old  school,  with  a  bold  attempt  at  origi- 
nality of  thought,  "  what  neivs  ?" 

"  Pop  ! — "  the  Colonel  looked  at  the 
knight, — "  Pills  1"  he  surveyed  the  gentle- 
man of  the  old  school;  "I've  sad  news  for 
you.  Passing  by  the  house  of  old  Mr. 
Somers,  an  hour  or  tAvo  ago,  I  discovered 
j  that  his  son  had  been  murdered  in  his  room, 
I  you  mark  me,  by  an  escaped  convict,  who 
I  was  found  concealed  on  the  premises.  Sad' 
!  news,  boys !" 

"  Extraordinary  !"  cried  Pop  and  Pill  ia  a 
breath.  And  the  two  drew  near  the  princi- 
pal and  conversed  at  leisure  with  him ;  the 
Colonel  all  the  while  watching  for  the  sign  ! 

Frank  and  Nameless ! 

She  found  him  leaning  against  the  central 
pillar,  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  his 
large  gray  eyes  (for  the  mask  had  fallen 
from  his  face,)  roving  thoughtfully  around 
the  hall.  How  changed  that  face !  The 
cheeks,  no  longer  sallow,  are  flushed  with 
hope  ;  the  lips,  no  longer  colorless  and  drop- 
ped apart  in  vacant  apathy,  are  firmly  set 
together ;  the  broad  forehead,  still  white 
and  massive,  is  stamped  with  thought ;  the 
thought  which,  no  longer  dismayed  by  the 
bitter  past,  looks  forward,  with  a  clear  vision 
to  the  battles  of  the  future.  The  events  of 
the  night  had  given  new  life  to  Nameless. 

She  caught  his  gaze, — and  at  once  en- 
chained it.  His  eye  derived  new  fire  from 
her  look,  but  was  chained  to  that  look. 

"  It  was  my  father  who  wished  to  speak 
with  me,  Gulian,"  she  said,  and  watched 
each  lineament  of  his  countenance. 

"  Your  father  ?"  he  echoed, 

"My  father,  who  has  worked  you  so 
much  wrong, — who  has  worked  such  bitter 
wrong  to  me, — and  who  this  very  night, 
while  brooding  schemes  for  your  ruin, 
entered  my  chamber,  and  found  you  in  my 
arms,  and  heard  the  solemn  pledge  which  we 
exchanged." 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


"  Well,  Frank,"  he  interupted,  gazing  anx- 
iously into  her  face. 

"He  confesses  that  our,— our  marriage, 
will  more  than  exceed  his  wildest  hope. 
That  the  very  thought  of  it,  makes  him 
feel  bitter  remorse  for  the  past,  and  levels 
every  evil  thought,  as  regards  the  future. 
But—" 

She  paused  and  took  his  hands  in  hers, 
and  bent  her  face  nearer  to  him,  until  her 
burning  gaze,  riveted  every  power  of  his 
soul. 

*'  But  he  is  afraid  that  you  will  hereafter 
regret  your  pledge  of  marriage." 
"Frank!" 

"  That  you,  as  the  possessor  of  incredible 
wealth,  will  look  back  with  wonder,  with 
contempt  upon  the  hour,  when  you  plighted 
your  faith  to  one  like  me  !" 

"One  like  you!  Frank,  Frank,  do  you 
think  thus 

"That  once  secure  in  your  possessions, 
you  will  regard  as  worse  than  idle  words,  a 
promise  made  to  the  daughter  of  your 
enemy, — to  a  woman,  whose  life  has  been — 
spare  me — " 

She  buried  her  head  upon  his  breast ;  he 
drew  her  to  him  and  felt  the  beating  of  her 
heart. 

"  Oh,  Frank,  can  you  think  thus  meanly  of 
me  ?"  he  cried,  completely  carried  away  by 
her  wild  beauty,  her  agitation,  her  tears. 
"My  promise  once  made  cannot  be  taken 
back.  I  know  what  I  promise  ;  I  know  the 
future.  I  have  risen  from  the  grave  of  my 
past  life ;  you,  too,  shall  rise  from  the  grave 
of  your  past  life.  We  will  begin  life  anew. 
"We  will  walk  the  -^oxl^  together  [  Oh, 
"wtould  that  this  hour,  this  moment,  I  could 
make  my  compact  good,  bej^ond  all  chance 
of  change,  all  danger  of  repeal !" 

"  Do  you  really  wish  thus,  Gulian  ?"  She 
raised  her  face,  and  her  soul  was  in  her  eyes. 
"  Is  that  the  deepest  wish  of  your  heart  ?" 

"Frank,  I  swear  it !" 

She  took  the  white  cross  from  his  neck, — 
held  it  for  a  moment  over  her  head ;  it 
glittered  brightly  in  the  light ;  and  then  she 
wound  the  chain  about  her  own  neck,  and 
the  white  cross  glittered  on  her  proud 
bosom. 

"Take  this  in  exchange" — she  took  the 
golden  cross  from  her  breast,  and  wound  its 


153 

chain  about  his  neck  ;  the  cross  glitters  over 
his  heart — "  in  witness  of  our  mutual  pledge. 
And  Gulian, — "  there  was  a  look — an  ex- 
tended hand — "  Come  !" 

She  led  him  from  the  light  into  the 
shadows,  and  —  while  his  every  pulse 
bounded  as  with  a  new  life — from  the  hall. 

And,  as  they  passed  from  the  hall,  Leo 
the  Tenth,  clad  in  his  cardinal  attire,  led  his 
young  nephew  lovingly  among  the  shadows 
of  the  vast  apartment, — now  pausing  to 
refresh  himself  with  sparkling  Heidsick,  and 
now  twining  his  arm  about  the  nephew's 
waist,  trying  to  soothe  her  mind  upon  some 
doctrinal  point : 

"Dearest  Julia,"  he  whispered,  as  they 
paused  for  a  moment  in  the  shadow  of  a 
pillar. 

"  Dearest  Doctor,"  she  responded — that  is, 
the  nephew,  clad  in  blue  frock-coat  and 
trowsers  ;  "  you  don't  think  that  my  husband 
ever  will — " 

The  sentence  was  interrupted.  A  grave  hi- 
dalgo, attired  in  black  velvet,  richly  embroi- 
dered with  gold,  confronted  the  Doctor, 
otherwise  Leo  the  Tenth,  and  whispered 
earnestly  in  his  ear. 

"  Impossible  !"  responded  Leo  the  Tenth, 
shaking  his  head.  "Impossible,  my  dear 
Tarleton!" 

"  It  mmt  be,"  answered  the  hidalgo,  em- 
phatically. "A  quiet  room  up  stairs,  and 
no  one  present  save  myself,  the  bridegroom 
and  the  bride." 

"But  my  name  will  appear  on  the  certifi- 
cate," hesitated  the  Doctor,  "  and  questions 
may  be  asked  as  to  the  place  in  which  this 
marriage  was  celebrated,  and  hmo  I  came  to 
be  there." 

"  Pshaw  !  You  are  strangely  scrupulous," 
returned  the  hidalgo.  "  I  tell  you,  Doctor, 
it  is  a  matter  of  the  last  importance,  and 
cannot  be  put  off.  Then  you  can  celebrate 
the  marriage  a  second  time,  in  another  place^ 
and — "  he  whispered  a  few  emphatic  words 
in  the  Doctor's  ear. 

Leo  the  Tenth  was  troubled,  but  he  saw 
no  way  of  escape. 

"  Well,  well,  be  it  so,  Tarleton  ;  you  are 
an  odd  sort  of  fellow.  Julia,  dear," — this, 
aside  to  his  nephew  ;  "  wait  for  me  in  the 
Scarlet  Chamber,  up  stairs,  you  know?"  The 
nephew  whispered  her  assent.    "I'll  join 


154  IN  THE 

you  presently.  Now  Count," — this  to  Tarle- 
ton, — "lead  the  way,  and  let  us  celebrate 
these  mysterious  nuptials." 

And  the  three  left  the  Central  Hall 
together.  Tarleton  and  the  Doctor,  on  their 
way  to  the  Bridal  Chamber,  and  the  nephew 
on  her  way  to  the  Scarlet  Chamber. 

Near  the  central  pillar  stood  the  White 
Monk,  with  the  hands  of  the  White  Nun 
resting  on  his  shoulders,  and  his  arms  about 
her  waist.  Her  hood  has  fallen  ;  her  coun- 
tenance, flushed  and  glowing,  lies  open  to 
his  gaze.  A  beautiful  nun,  with  blue  eyes, 
swimming  in  fiery  light,  and  unbound  hair, 
bright  as  gold,  sweeping  a  cheek  like  a  rose- 
bud, and  resting  upon  neck  and  shoulders 
white  as  snow.  And  the  White  Monk  bends 
down,  and  their  lips  meet,  and  she  falls,  half 
passionately,  half  shuddering,  on  his  breast. 

"  Oh,  Beverly,  Beverly  !  whither  would 
you  lead  me  ?"  He  scarce  can  distinguish 
the  words,  so  faint,  so  broken  by  agitation  is 
her  voice. 

"  Your  husband  is  false.  He  has  trampled 
upon  your  love.  I  love  you,  and  will  avenge 
you.    Come,  Joanna !" 

And  from  the  light  into  the  shadow,  with 
the  trembling  nun  half  resting  on  his  arm, 
half  reposing  on  his  breast,  passes  the  White 
Monk.  They  reach  the  threshold  of  the 
hall.  Pass  it  not,  Joanna,  as  you  love  your 
child !  pass  it  not,  on  peril  of  your  soul ! 
But  no  !  "  Come,  J oanna  !"  and  they  are 
gone  together. 

From  the  throng  of  maskers  who  glide  to 
and  fro,  select,  for  a  moment,  the  lady  in 
black,  who  stands  gloomily  yonder,  gather- 
ing the  folds  of  her  robe  about  her  face. 
Does  this  scene  attract,  or  repel  her  ? 
Within  that  shapeless  robe,  does  her  bosom 
swell  with  pleasure — voluptuous  pleasure?  or 
does  it  contract  with  terror  and  loathing  ? 

Her  Turkish  friend,— the  diminutive  gen- 
tleman in  the  red  jacket,  spangled  all  over, 
blue  trowsers  and  red  morocco  boots,— in 
vain  offers  her  a  glass  of  sparkling  cham- 
pagne;  and  just  as  vainly  essays  to  draw 
her  forth  in  conversation.  At  last,  he  seems 
to  weary  of  her  continued  silence  : 

"  If  you  will  favor  me  with  your  company 
for  a  few  moments,  I  will  explain  the  pur- 
pose which  impelled  me  to  request  an  inter- 
view at  this  place." 


TEMPLE. 

"  Let  it  be  at  once,  then,"  is  the  whispered 
reply. 

He  offers  his  arm  ;  she  quietly  but  firmly 
pushes  it  aside. 

"  I  will  follow  you,"  she  says  in  her  low- 
toned  voice. 

And  the  Turk  leaves  the  hall,  followed 
by  the  Lady  in  Black. 

"  The  Blue  Chamber  !"  he  ejaculates,  as 
he  crosses  the  threshold. 

Look  again  among  the  throng  of  guests. 
The  stately  Roderick  Borgia  stands  yonder, 
his  massive  form  reflected  in  a  mirror,  and 
the  white  robed  Lucretia  resting  on  his  arm. 
They  are  masked ;  you  cannot  see  the 
voluptuous  loveliness  of  her  face,  nor  the 
somber  passion  of  his  bronzed  visage.  But 
his  brow,  —  that  vast  forehead,  big  with 
swollen  veins,  —  is  visible  ;  and  the  mirror 
reflects  her  spotless  neck  and  shoulders,  and 
the  single  lily  set  among  the  meshes  of  her 
raven  hair.  It  is  a  fine  picture  ;  the  majestic 
Borgia,  clad  in  purple,  the  enticing  Lucretia 
robed  in  snowy  white  :  never  before  did 
mirror  reflect  a  more  striking  contrast.  You 
hear  his  voice — that  voice  whose  organ-like 
depth  stirs  the  blood  : 

"A  career,  beautiful  lady,  now  opens 
before  you,  such  as  the  proudest  queen  might 
envy — " 

And  he  attempts  to  take  her  soft,  white 
hand  within  his  own.  But  she  gently  with- 
draws it  from  his  grasp.  Lucretia,  it  seems, 
is  timid,  or — artful. 

"  Yes,  we  will  revive  the  day,  when  intel- 
lect and  beauty,  embodied  in  a  woman's 
form,  ruled  the  world."  How  his  deep  voice 
adds  force  to  his  words.  "  Yes,  yes ;  you 
shall  be  my  Queen — mine  !  But  come  ;  I 
have  that  to  say  to  you,  which  will  have  a 
vital  bearing  upon  your  fate." 

"  And  my  brother  ?"  whispers  Lucretia. 

"And  also  the  fate  of  your  brother," 
responds  Roderick  Borgia.  "  Come  with 
me  to  the  Golden  Room." 

"  To  the  Golden  Room  be  it  then  !" 

And  Lucretia  leans  on  the  arm  of  Borgia 
and  goes  with  him  from  the  Hall  to  the 
Golden  Room  :  his  broad  chest  swelling 
with  the  anticipation  of  triumph, — and  her 
right  hand  resting  upon  the  hilt  of  the 
poniard  which  is  inserted  in  the  scarf  that 
binds  her  waist. 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


155 


Ere  we  follow  the  guests  who  have  left 
Ihe  hall,  and  trace  their  various  fortunes,  let 
us  cast  a  momentary  glance  upon  those  who 
remain. 

The  Caliph  Haroun  Alraschid  sits  by 
yonder  table,  sipping  champagne  from  a 
long-necked  glass,  which  now  and  then  is 
pressed  by  the  lips  of  his  fair  abbess.  The 
caliph  has  evidently  been  refreshing  himself 
too  bountifully  with  the  wines  of  the  Giaour; 
his  mask  falls  aside,  and  beneath  his  turban, 
instead  of  the  grave  oriental  features  of  the 
magnificent  sultan,  you  discern  the  puflfy  face 
and  carbuncled  nose  of  a  Wall  street  broker. 

A  little  beyond  the  caliph,  a  pope  has 
fallen  to  sleep  on  yonder  sofa,  the  triple 
crown  resting  neglected  at  his  feet,  and  his 
pontifical  robes  soiled  with  the  stains  of 
wine.  The  cardinal  and  his  Quakeress  are 
trying  the  steps  of  the  last  waltz.  The 
christian  knight  and  his  houri,  stand  by  the 
table,  near  the  pillar, — discussing  the  merits 
[of  Mahomet's  paradise  ?  No !  But  the 
remains  of  a  cold  boiled  fowl.  And  then, 
in  the  shadows  of  the  pillars,  and  in  front 
iof  the  lofty  mirrors,  still  glided  to  and  fro 
the  contrasted  train  of  monks  and  nuns, 
knights  and  houris,  cardinals  and  Quaker- 
esses, popes  and  dancing  girls.  All  were 
masked — still  masked  :  for  there  were  faces 
|in  that  hall  which  you  may  have  often  seen 
in  the  dress  circle  of  the  opera,  or  in  the 
dress  pews  of  the  fashionable  church.  Re- 
move those  masks?  Never  !  not  as  you  value 
the  peace  of  a  hundred  families,  the  reputa- 
tion of  some  of  our  most  exclusive  fashion- 
ables, the  repose  of  "  good  society." 
'  Thus  the  maskers  glide  along ;  the  music 
strikes  up  in  an  adjoining  hall — the  dance 
begins — the  orgie  deepens, — and, — 
Iiet  the  curtain  fall. 


ilM 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    BLUE  ROOM. 

The  diminutive  Turk,  followed  by  the 
jLady  in  Black,  led  the  w^ay  from  the  hall, 
io  a  distant  and  secluded  apartment.  She 
still  gathered  the  hood  of  her  robe  closely 
iibout  her  face,  and  not  a  word  was  spoken 
IS  they  pursued  their  way  along  the  dark 
passage.  A  door  was  opened,  and  they 
entered  a  small  although  luxurious  apart- 
pient,  hung  with  hangings  of  azure,  veined 


with  golden  flowers.  A  wax  candle,  placed 
in  its  massive  candlestick,  on  a  table  before 
a  mirror,  gave  light  to  the  place.  It  was  a 
silent,  cozy,  and  luxurious  nook  of  the  Tem- 
ple, remote  from  the  hall,  and  secure  from 
all  danger  of  interruption. 

As  the  Turk  entered  he  flung  aside  hlg 
mask  and  turban,  and  disclosed  the  ferret 
eyes,  bald  head  and  wiry  whiskers  of  Israel 
Yorkc.  Israel's  bald  head  was  fringed  with 
white  hairs  ;  his  wiry  whiskers  touched  with 
gray ;  it  was  a  strange  contrast  between  his 
practical  bank-note  face,  and  his  oriental  cos- 
tume. 

"  Now,"  he  cried,  flinging  himself  into  a 
chair,  "  let  us  come  to  some  understanding. 
What  in  the  deuce  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  mean  ?  "  echoed  the  Lady  in 
Black,  who,  seated  on  the  sofa,  held  the  folds 
of  the  robe  across  her  face. 

"  Yes,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  replied  Israel, 
giving  his  Turkish  jacket  a  petulant  twitch. 
"  Did  I  not  help  you  out  of  that  difficulty  in' 
Canal  street,  last  evening,  and  rescue  you 
from  the  impertinence  of  the  shop-keeper  ? 

"  Yes,"  briefly  responded  the  lady. 

"  Did  I  not,  seeing  your  forlorn  and  deso- 
late condition,  pin  a  note  to  your  shawl, 
signed  with  my  own  name,  asking  you  to 
meet  me  at  this  place,  at  twelve  o'clock, 
*  whej-e,'  so  I  said,  *  my  worthy  and  unpro- 
tected friend,  now  so  bravely  endeavoring  to 
get  bread  for  an  afflicted  father,  you  will  hear 
of  something  greatly  to  your  advantage.* 
Those  were  my  w-ords,  'greatly  to  your  ad- 
vantage ' " 

"  Those  were  the  words,"  echoed  the  lady, 
still  preserving  her  motionless  attitude. 

"  And  in  the  note  I  inclosed  the  pass- word 
by  which  only  admittance  can  be  gained  to 
this  mansion  ?  " 

"  You  did.  I  used  it;  entered  the  mansion 
and  met  you."  Her  voice  was  scarcely  au- 
ble  and  very  tremulous. 

"  You  met  me,  oh,  indeed  you  met  me," 
said  Israel,  pulling  his  gray  whiskers  ;  "  but 
what  of  that?  An  hour  and  more  has 
passed.  You  have  refused  even  a  glass  of 
wine, — have  never  replied  one  word  to  all 
my  propositions  ;  egad  !  I  have  not  even  seen 
,  your  face." 

I  "  And  now  you  have  brought  me  to  this 
;  lonely  apartment  to  repeat  your  proposals  ?  " 


156 


IN  THE  TEMPLE. 


"  Yes  ! "  Israel  picked  up  his  turban  and 
twirled  it  round  on  the  end  of  his  finger. 
"  I  want  a  plain  answer,  yes,  or  no  !  I  am  a 
plain  man, — a  man  of  business.  You  are 
poor,  almost  starving  (pardon  me  if  I  pain 
you),  and  you  have  an  aged  and  helpless 
father  on  your  hands.  You  have  nothing  to 
look  forward  to,  but  starvation,  or,  the  streets. 
You  remember  the  scene  in  the  shirt-store 
to-night?" 

The  lady  gently  bowed  her  head,  and 
raised  both  hands  to  her  face. 

"  I  am  rich,  benevolent,  always  had  a  good 
heart," — another  twirl  o'f  the  turban, — "  and 
in  a  day  or  two  I  am  about  to  sail  for  Ha- 
vana. Accompany  me  !  Your  father  shall 
be  settled  comfortably  ;  the  sea-breezes  will 
do  you  good,  and, — and, — the  climate  is  de- 
licious." And  the  fervent  Turk  stroked  his 
bald  head,  and  smoothed  his  white  hairs. 

"  Accompany  you,"  said  the  lady,  slowly  ; 
"in  what  capacity?  As  a  daughter,  per- 
chance ?  " 

"Not  ex-act-ly.  as  a  daugh-t-e-r,"  res- 
ponded Israel ;  "  but  as  a  companion." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  the  robe  was 
gently  removed  from  the  head  and  face  of 
the  Lady  in  Black.  A  beautiful  countenance, 
shaded  by  dark  brown  hair,  was  disclosed  ; 
young  and  beautiful,  although  there  was  the 
shadow  of  sorrow  on  the  cheeks,  and  traces 
of  tears  in  the  eyes.  An  expression  inex- 
pressibly sad  and  touching  came  over  that 
face,  as  she  said,  in  a  voice  which  was  musi- 
cal in  its  very  tremor, — 

"  And  you,  sir,  knew  my  father  in  better  j 
days?" 

"I  did." 

"You  never  knew  any  one  of  his  race 
guilty  of  a  dishonorable  act?" 
"Never  did." 

"  And  now  you  find  him  aged  and  help- 
less,—  find  myself,  his  only  hope,  reduced 
to  the  last  extreme  of  poverty,  with  no  pros- 
pect but  (your  own  words),  starvation,  or  the 
streets, — " 

"Ay."  Israel,  beneath  his  spectacles, 
seemed  to  cast  an  admiring  glance  at  his 
Turkish  trowsers  and  red  morocco  boots. 

"  And  in  this  hour,  you,  an  old  friend  of 
the  family,  who  have  never  known  one  of 
our  name  guilty  of  an  act  of  dishonor,  come 
to  me,  and  seeing  my  father's  affliction,  and 


my  perfectly  helpless  condition,  gravely  pro- 
pose that  I  shall  escape  dishonor  by  becom- 
ing your — mistress  !  That  is  your  proposi- 
tion, sir." 

She  rose  and  placed  her  hand  firmly  or 
Israel's  shoulder,  and  looked  him  fixedly  ir 
the  eye.  The  little  man  was  thunderstruck, 
Her  flashing  eyes,  her  bosom  heaving  proudlj 
under  its  faded  covering,  the  proud  curl  of 
her  lip,  and  the  firm  pressure  of  the  hand  i 
which  rested  on  his  shoulder,  took  the  Fi- 
nancier completely  by  surprise. 

"  I  am  scarce  sixteen  years  old,"  she  con- 
tinued, her  eyes  growing  larger  and  brighter, 
"  my  childhood  was  passed  Avithout  a  care, 
But  in  the  last  two  years  I  have  gone 
through  trials  that  madden  me  now  to  thinlt 
upon ;  trials  that  the  aged  and  experienced 
are  rarely  called  upon  to  encounter ;  but  ii 
the  darkest  hour,  I  have  never  forgotter 
these  words,  '  Trust  in  God  ;'  never  for  ar 
instant  believed  that  God  would  ever  leave ; 
me  to  become  the  prey  of  a  man  like  you  • 
And  she  pressed  his  shoulder,  until  th<' 
little  man  shook  again,  his  gold  spectacles 
rattling  on  his  nose. 

"For,  do  you  mark  me,  the  very  triahi 
that  have  well-nigh  driven  me  mad,  hav< 
also  given  me  strength  and  courage,  may  be, 
the  strength,  the  courage  of  despair,  bui 
still  the  courage,  when  the  last  hope  fails,  tc 
choose  death  before  dishonor  ! " 
"But  your  father,"  faltered  Israel. 
"My  father  is  without  bread ;  but  once  ir' 
twenty- four  hours  have  I  tasted  food,  and' 
j  that  a  miserable  morsel ;  but  rather  than  ac- 
cept your  proposals,  and  lie  down  witl! 
shame,  I  would  put  the  poison  vial  first  tc' 
my  father's  lips,  then  to  my  own  !  Yes,' 
Israel  Yorke,  there  is  a  God,  and  He,  in  thif 
house,  when  the  last  hope  has  gone  out 
when  there  is  nothing  but  death  before, 
gives  me  strength  to  spit  upon  your  infa- 
mous proposals,  and  to  die  !  Strength  such 
as  you  will  never  feel  in  your  death-hour  ! " 

"  Pretty  talk,  pretty  talk,"  faltered  Israel ; 
"  but  what  does  it  amount  to  ?  Talk  on, 
still  the  fact  remains ;  you  and  your  fathei 
are  starving,  and  you  reject  the  offer  of  the 
only  one  who  can  relieve  you." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven.  She  folded 
her  hands  upon  her  heaving  breast.  Hei 
face  was  unnatiu-ally  pallid  ;  her  eyes  unnat- 1 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


157 


urally  bright.  As  she  stood,  in  an  attitude 
BO  calm  and  severe,  she  was  vvondrously 
•beautiful.  Her  voice  was  marked  with  sin- 
gular elation, — 

"0,  my  God  !  there  must  be  a  hell,"  she 
<aid.  "  There  must  be  a  place  where  the 
injustice  of  this  world  is  made  straight ;  else 
why  does  this  man  sit  here,  clad  in  ill-gotten 
and  superfluous  wealth,  while  my  aged 
father,  one  of  his  victims,  lacks  at  this  hour 
even  a  crust  of  bread  ?  " 

Israel's  feelings  can  only  be  described  by 
a  single  word — "  uncomfortable."  He  shifted 
nervously  in  his  chair,  and  twirled  his  tur- 
ban on  the  end  of  his  finger ;  then  rubbed 
his  bald  head,  smoothed  his  white  hair,  and 
pulled  his  wiry  whiskers. 

"  What  in  the  devil  did  you  come  to  see 
me  for,  if  such  was  your  opinion  of  me  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  see  you  as  a  last  hope  ; "  her 
countenance  fell,  and  her  tone  was  that  of 
unalloyed  despair.  "  I  thought  that  remorse 
had  been  busy  at  your  heart ;  that  you 
wished  to  atone  for  the  past  by  a  just,  al- 
though tardy,  restitution.  I  thought  " 

"  Remorse  !  restitution !  "  laughed  the  Fi- 
nancier.   "  Come,  I  like  that ! " 

"  That  knowing  the  utterly  destitute  con- 
dition of  the  father,  you  had  summoned  the 
daughter,  in  order  to  tender  to  her,  at  least, 
a  portion  of  the  wealth  which  you  wrung 
from  him  " 

Choked  by  emotion,  she  could  not  pro- 
ceed, but  grew  pale  and  paler,  until  a  flood 
of  tears  came  to  her  relief. 

"  0,  sir,  a  pittance,  a  pittance,  to  save  my 
father's  life  ! "  She  flung  herself  at  his  feet, 
and  clutched  his  knees.  Her  much-worn 
bonnet  fell  back  upon  her  neck,  and  her  hair 
burst  its  fastening,  and  descended  in  wavy 
masses  upon  her  shoulders.  Her  face  was 
flushed  with  sudden  warmth  ;  her  eyes  shone 
all  the  brighter  for  their  tears.  "  A  pittance 
out  of  your  immense  wealth,  to  save  the  life 
of  your  old  friend,  my  father  !  His  daugh- 
ter begs  it  at  your  feet." 

Israel  gazed  at  her  deliberately  through  his 
gold  spectacles, — 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear,"  he  said,  and  a  sneer 
curled  his  cold  lip  ;  "  you  are  too  damnably 
virtuous." 

The  maiden  said  no  more.  Relaxing  her 
grasp,  she  fell  at  his  feet,  and  lay  there,  pale 


and  insensible,  her  long  hair  floating  on  the 
carpet.  The  agony  which  she  had  endured 
in  the  last  twenty-four  hours  had  reached  its 
climax.  She  was  stretched  like  a  dead  wo- 
man at  the  feet  of  the  Financier. 

"  Trust  in  God, — good  motto  for  a  picture- 
book  ;  but  what  good  does  it  do  you  now 
my  dear?"  thus  soliloquized  Israel,  as  he 
knelt  beside  the  insensible  girl.  "  Don't  dis- 
count that  kind  o'  paper  in  my  bank  that  I 
know  of.  Fine  arm,  that,  and  splendid 
bust ! "  He  surveyed  her  maidenly,  yet 
rounded  proportions.  "  If  it  was  not  for  her 
stubborn  virtue,  she  would  make  a  splendid 
companion.    Well,  well,  " 

A  vile  thought  worked  its  way  through 
every  lineament  of  his  face. 

"  Once  in  my  power,  all  her  scruples  would 
be  at  an  end.  We  are  alone," — he  glanced 
around  the  cozy  apartment, — "  and  I  think 
I'll  try  the  effect  of  an  anodyne.  Anodynes 
are  good  for  fainting  spells,  I  believe." 

He  drew  a  slender  vial  from  beneath  his 
Turkish  jacket,  and  holding  it  between  him- 
self and  the  light,  examined  it  steadily  with 
one  eye. 

"It  is  well  I  thought  of  it !  'Twill  revive 
her, — make  her  gently  delirious  for  a  while, 
and  she  will  not  come  to  herself  completely 
until  to-morrow  ;  much  surer  than  persua- 
sion, and  quicker  !  Trust  in  God, — a-hem  !** 

He  raised  her  head  on  his  knee,  and  un- 
corked the  vial  and  held  it  to  her  lips. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  quick,  rapid 
knock  at  the  door.  It  broke  startlingly  upon 
the  dead  stillness. 

"  Why  did  I  not  lock  it  ?  "  cried  Israel, 
his  hand  paralyzed,  even  as  it  held  the  vial 
to  the  poor  girl's  lips. 

Too  late  !  The  door  opened,  and  one  by 
one,  six  sturdy  men,  in  rough  garments  and 
with  faces  by  no  means  ominous  of  good, 
stalked  into  the  room. 

And  over  the  shoulders  of  the  six,  ap- 
peared six  other  faces,  all  wearing  that  same 
discouraging  expression.  It  may  not  be  im- 
proper to  state  that  every  one  of  the  twelve 
carried  in  his  right  hand  a  piece  of  wood, 
that  deserved  the  name  of  a  stick,  perchance, 
a  club. 

And  shuffling  over  the  floor,  they  encircled 
Israel.  "  Got  him,"  said  one  who  appeared 
to  be  the  spokesman  of  the  band,  "  safe  and 


158 


IN  THE  TEMPLE. 


tight !  Had  a  hunt,  but  fetched  him  at  last. 
I  say,  Israel,  my  Turk,  (a  gentle  hint  with  a 
club),  get  up  and  redeem  your  paper  !  " 

And  he  held  a  bundle  of  bank  notes, — 
Chow  Bunk,  Muddy  Run,  Terrapin  Hollow, 
under  the  nose  of  the  paralyzed  Financier. 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  GOLDEN  ROOM. 

Roderick  Borgia  leads  Lucretia  across 
the  threshold  of  the  Golden  Room.  She 
litters  an  ejaculation  of  wonder  mingled  with 
terror.  For  it  is  a  magnificent,  and  yet  a 
gloomy  place  that  Golden  Room.  A  large 
square  apartment,  the  walls  concealed  by 
black  hangings, — hangings  of  velvet  fringed 
with  gold.  The  floor  is  covered  with  a  dark 
carpet,  the  ceiling  represents  a  sun  radiating 
among  sullen  clouds.  The  chairs,  the  sofa, 
are  covered  with  black  velvet,  and  framed 
in  gold.  Only  a  single  mirror  is  there, — op- 
posite the  sofa,  reaching  from  the  floor  to 
the  ceiling,  framed  in  ebony,  which  in  its 
turn  is  framed  in  a  border  of  gold.  A  lamp, 
whose  light  is  softened  by  a  clouded  shade, 
stands  on  an  ebony  table,  between  the  sofa 
and  the  mirror,  and  around  the  lamp  are 
clustered  fruits  and  flowers,  two  long  necked 
glasses,  and  a  bottle  of  Bohemian  glass, 
blue,  veined  with  gold.  A  single  picture, 
suspended  against  the  dark  hangings,  alone 
relieves  the  sullen  grandeur  of  the  place. 
It  is  of  the  size  of  life,  and  represents  Lucre- 
tia Borgia,  her  unbound  hair  waving  darkly 
over  her  white  shoulders,  and  half  bared 
bosom,  her  eyes  shooting  their  maddening 
'glance,  from  the  shadow  of  the  long  eyelashes, 
her  form  clad  in  a  white  garment,  edged 
with  scarlet, — a  garment  which,  light  and 
airy,  floats  like  a  misty  vail  about  her  beau- 
tiful shape.  Coming  from  the  darkness  into 
this  scene,  the  masked  Lucretia,  as  we  have 
said,  could  not  repress  an  ejaculation,  half 
astonishment,  half  fear — 

"  Never  fear,"  cries  Roderick  gayly,  as  he 
flung  his  plumed  cap  on  the  table.  "  It  ^ 
looks  gloomy  enough,  but  then  it  is  like  the  j 
Golden  Room  in  the  Vatican,  of  which  his-  : 
tory  tells.  "And  then," — he  pointed  to  the 
picture,  "  the  living  Lucretia  need  not  fear  a  ^ 
comparison  with  the  dead  one.  Remove  j 
your  mask  !    I  am  dying  to  look  upon  you."  , 


Lucretia  sank  upon  the  sofa  with  Roderick 
by  her  side.  Roderick  unmasked  and  re- 
vealed the  somber  features  of  Gabriel  Godlike. 
Lucretia  dropped  her  mask,  and  the  light 
shone  on  the  face  of  Esther  Royalton. 

"  By  heavens,  you  are  beautiful  !'■' — his 
eyes  streamed  with  singular  intense  light, 
from  the  shadow  of  his  projecting  brow. 

And  she  was  beautiful.  A  faultless  shape, 
neck  and  shoulders  white  as  snow,  a  counte- 
nance framed  in  jet-black  hair,  the  red 
bloom  of  a  passionate  organization  on  lips 
and  cheeks,  large  eyes,  whose  intense  light 
was  rather  deepened  than  subdued  by  the 
shadow  of  the  long  eyelashes.  And  then 
the  blush  which  coursed  over  her  face  and 
neck,  as  she  felt  Godlike's  burning  gaze  fixed 
upon  her,  can  be  compared  to  nothing  save  a 
sudden  flash  of  morning  sunlight,  trembling 
over  frozen  snow.  One  of  those  women, 
altogether,  whose  organization  embodies  the 
very  intensity  of  intellect  and  passion,  and 
whose  way  in  life  lies  along  no  middle 
track,  but  either  rises  to  the  full  sunlight,  or 
is  lost  in  shadows  and  darkness. 

"  You  consent,  my  child  ?"  Godlike 
softened  his  organ-like  voice, — took  her  hand 
within  his  own — she  did  not  give,  nor  did 
she  withdraw  her  hand, — "Randolph  shall 
go  abroad,  upon  an  honorable  mission  to  a 
foreign  court,  where  he*  will  be  treated  as  a 
man,  without  regard  to  the  taint  (if  thus  it 
may  be  called)  in  his  blood.  He  will  have 
fair  and  free  scope  for  the  development  of 
his  genius.    And  you, — " 

He  paused.  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his 
face,  and  met  his  burning  glances,  with  a 
searching  and  profound  look. 

"And  myself, — " 

"And  you  shall  go  with  me  to  Washing- 
ton, where  your  beauty  shall  command  all 
hearts,  your  intellect  carve  for  yourself  a 
position,  that  a  queen  might  envy." 

She  made  no  reply,  but  her  eyes  were 
downcast,  her  beautiful  forehead  darkened 
by  a  shade  of  thought.  Was  she  measuring 
the  full  force  and  meaning  of  his  words  ? 

"  In, — what — capacity — did — you — say  ?'* 
she  asked  at  length  in  a  faint  voice. 

"As  my  ward, — "  responded  Godlike; 
"  you  will  be  known  as  my  ward,  the  heiress 
and  daughter  of  a  wealthy  West  Indian,  who 
at  his  death,  intrusted  your  person  and  for- 


0 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


159 


^      tune  to  my  care.    You  will  have  your  own 
mansion,  your  pair  of  servants,  carriage  and 
^      BO-forth, — in  fact,  all  the  externals  of  a  per- 
^      Bon  of  immense  wealth.    As  my  ward  you 
will  enter  the  first  circles  of  society.  The 
^  I   whole  machinery  of  life  at  the  Capital  will 
r      be  laid  bare  to  your  gaze,  and  with  your 
hand  upon  the  spring  which  sets  that  ma- 
I  chinery  in  motion,  you  can  command  it  to 
J-      your  will.     You  will  not  live,  you  will 
;      reign !" 

"Tell  me  something,"  said  Esther,  in  a 
low  voice,  her  bosom  for  a  moment  swelling 
above  the  scarlet  border  of  her  robe, — "  Tell 
me  something  of  life  at  the  Capital, — life  in 
Washington  City." 

Godlike  laughed  until  his  broad  chest 
shook  again, — a  deep  sardonic  laugh. 

"Poets  have  prated  of  the  influence  of 
'1     woman,   and  most  wildly !    But  life  in 
iii     Washington  City  distances  the  wildest  dream 
i     of  the  poets.    There  woman  is  supreme, 
i?     Never  was  her  influence  so  absolute  before, 
1     at  any  court, — neither  at  the  court  of  Louis 
the  Great,  nor  that  of  George  the  Fourth, — 
as  at  the  plain  republican  court  of  Washing- 
;     ton  City.    The  simple  people,  afar  off  from 
c     Washington,  think  that  it  is  the  President,  the 
11.    Heads  of  the  Department,  the  Senators  and 
al  i  Kepresentatives,  who  make  the  laws  and 
3     wield  the  destinies  of  the  republic.  They 
t     think  of  great  men  sitting  in  council,  by  the 
3     midnight  lamp,  their  hearts  heavy,  their 
eyes  haggard  with  much  watching  over  the 
welfare  of  the  nation.    Bah  !  when  the  real 
j     legislator  is  not  a  grave  senator  or  solemn 
1     minister  of  state,  but  some  lovely  woman, 
armed  only  with  a  pair  of  bright  eyes,  and  a 
soft  musical  voice.    The  grave  legislators  of 
the  male  gender,  strut  grandly  in  their  robes 
of  office,  before  the  scenes, — and  that  poor 
dumb  beast,  the  people,  opens  its  big  eyes, 
and  stares  and  struts  ;  but  behind  the  scenes, 
it  is  woman  who  pulls  the  wires,  makes 
the  laws,  and  sets  the  nation  going."  He 
paused  and  laughed  again.  "  Why,  my  child, 
I  have  known  the  gravest  questions,  in 
which  the  very  fate  of  the  nation  was  in- 
volved, decided  upon,  in  senate  or  in  cabinet, 
after  long  days  and  nights  of  council  and 

debate,  and,  knocked  to  pieces  in  an 

instant  by  the  soft  fingers  of  a  pretty 
woman.    It  is  red  tape,  versus  bright  eyes  in 


I  Washington  City,  and  eyes  always  carry  the 
day." 

"This  is  indeed  a  strange  story  you  are 
telling  me,"  said  Esther,  her  eyes  still 
downcast. 

Godlike  for  a  moment  surveyed  himself 
in  the  mirror  opposite,  and  laughed. 

"  I  vow  I  had  quite  forgotten,  that  I  was 
arrayed  in  this  singular  costume, — scarlet 
tunic,  edged  with  ermine,  and  so-forth, — it 
is  something  in  the  style  of  Borgia,  and," 
he  added  to  himself,  surveying  the  somber 
visage  and  massive  forehead,  surmounted  by 
iron  gray  hair, — "  not  so  bad  looking  for  a 
man  of  sixty  !  You  think  it  impossible  ?" 
he  continued  aloud,  turning  to  Esther,  who 
had  raised  her  hand  thoughtfully  to  her 
forehead, — "  why  my  dear  child,  a  man  who 
lives  in  Washington  for  any  time,  sees 
strange  things.  I  have  seen  a  husband 
purchase  a  mission  by  the  gift  of  the  person 
of  a  beautiful  wife ;  I  have  seen  a  brother 
mount  to  office  over  the  ruins  of  his  sister's 
honor;  I  have  seen  a  gray-haired  father, 
when  all  his  claims  for  position  proved 
fruitless,  place  in  the  scale,  the  chastity  of 
an  only  and  beautiful  daughter — and  wiru 

By  !"  he  drew  down  his  dark  brows, 

until  his  eyes  were  scarcely  visible,  "  How  is 
it  possible  to  look  upon  mankind  with  any- 
thing but  contempt, — contempt  and  scorn  !" 

"  But,"  and  Esther  raised  her  eyes  to  that 
bronzed  face,  every  lineament  of  which  now 
worked  with  a  look  of  indescribable  scorn, — 
"you  have  genius, — the  loftiest !  you  tower 
above  the  mass  of  men.  You  have  influ- 
ence,— an  influence  rarely  given  to  any  one 
man  ;  it  spans  the  continent ;  why  not  use 
your  genius  and  influence  to  make  men 
better  ?" 

There  was  something  in  her  tone,  which 
struck  the  heart  of  Godlike.  The  expression 
of  intense  scorn  was  succeeded  by  a  look  of 
sadness  as  intense.  His  brows  rose,  and  his 
eyes  looked  forth,  large,  clear  and  dreamy. 
It  was  as  though  that  dark  countenance, 
seamed  by  the  wrinkles  of  long  years  of  sin, 
had  been,  for  an  instant,  baptized  with  the 
hope  and  freshness  of  youth. 

"That  was  long  ago;  long  ago;  the  dream  of 
making  men  better.  I  felt  it  once, — tried  to 
carry  it  into  deeds.  But  the  dream  has  long 
since  past.  I  awakened  from  it  many  years  ago. 


160  IN  THE 

You  see  it  is  very  pleasant  to  believe  in  the 
innate  goodness  of  human  nature,  but  attempt 
to  carry  it  into  action,  and  hark !  do  you 
not  hear  them,  the  very  people,  to  whom 
yesterday  you  sacrificed  your  soul ;  hark ! 
^crucify  him  !  crucify  him  V  " 

He  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  the  mirror  re- 
flected his  majestic  form,  clad  in  the  attire 
of  Koderick  Borgia,  and  his  dark  visage, 
stamped  with  genius  on  the  giant  forehead, 
and  buraing  with  the  light  of  a  giant  soul  in 
the  lurid  eyes.  He  was  strangely  agitated. 
His  chest  heaved  beneath  his  masker's  attire- 
There  was  an  absent,  dreamy  look  in  his  up- 
raised eyes. 

"  I  used  to  think  of  it,  and  dream  over  it, 
in  my  college  days, — of  that  history  in  which 
*Hosanna!'  is  shouted  to-day,  and  palm 
branches  strewn  ;  and  to-morrow, — ^the  hall 
of  Pilate,  the  crown  of  thorns,  the  march  up 
Calvary,  and  the  felon's  cross !  I  used,  I 
say,  to  think  and  dream  over  it  in  my  col- 
lege days.  As  I  looked  around  the  world 
and  surveyed  history,  and  found  the  same 
story  everywhere :  found  that  for  bold  im- 
posture and  giant  humbug,  in  every  age,  the 
world  had  riches,  honor,  fame,  while  in  re- 
turn, for  any  attempt  to  make  it  better,  it 
had  the  cry,  '  crucify !  crucify !'  it  had  the 
scourge,  the  crown  of  thorns,  and  the  felon's 
cross." 

His  voice  swelled  bold  and  deep  through 
the  silent  room  ;  as  he  uttered  the  last  word, 
he  raised  his  hand  to  his  eyes,  and  for  a 
moment  was  buried  in  the  depth  of  his 
emotions.  Esther,  raising  her  eyes,  regarded 
with  looks  of  mingled  admiration  and  aw^e, 
that  forehead,  upon  w^hich  the  veins  stood 
forth  bold  and  swollen, — the  handwriting  of 
the  inward  thought. 

"  The  devil  is  a  very  great  fool,"  he  said, 
with  a  burst  of  laughter,  "  to  give  himself  so 
much  trouble  about  a  world  which  is  not 
worth  the  damning."  And  then  turning  to 
Esther,  he  said  bitterly  :  "  Do  you  ask  me 
why  I  utterly  despise  mankind,  and  why  I 
have  lost  all  faith  in  good  ?  In  the  course  of 
a  long  and  somewhat  tumultuous  life,  I  have 
found  one  thing  true,  —  whenever  from  a 
pure  impulse,  I  have  advocated  a  noble 
thought,  or  done  a  good  deed,  I  have  been 
hunted  like  a  dog,  and  whenever  from  mere 
egotism,  I  have  defended  a  bad  principle,  or 


;  TEMPLE. 

achieved  an  infamous  deed,  I  have  been  wot 
shiped  as  a  demigod.  Yes,  it  is  not  for 
one's  bad  deeds  that  we  are  blamed  ;  it  is 
for  the  good,  that  condemnation  falls  upon 
us." 

He  strode  to  the  table,  and  filled  a  glass 
to  the  brim  with  blood-red  Burgundy  :  *'  My 
beautiful  Esther,  your  answer !  Which  do 
you  choose  ?  On  the  one  hand  want  and 
persecution,  on  the  other,  position  and 
power, — yes,  on  the  one  hand  the  life  of  the 
hunted  pariah  ;  on  the  other,  sway  of  an  ab- 
solute queen." 

He  drained  the  glass,  without  removing  it 
from  his  lips  ;  then  advancing  to  the  sofa,  he 
took  her  hands  wdthin  his  own,  and  raised 
her  gently  to  her  feet. 

"  Esther,  it  is  time  to  make  your  choice," 
he  said,  bending  the  force  of  his  gaze  upon  that 
beautiful  countenance  :  "  which  will  you  be  ? 
Your  brother's  slave,  hunted  at  every  step, 
and  even  doomed  to  be  the  pariah  of  the 
social  world, — or,  will  you  be  the  ward  of 
Gabriel  Godlike,  the  beautiful  heiress  of  his 
West  Indian  friend,  the  unrivaled  queen  of 
life  at  the  capital." 

Esther  felt  his  burning  gaze,  and  said  with 
downcast  eyes, — her  voice  very  low  and 
faint — "  And  in  return  for  this  generous  pro- 
tection, what  am  I  to  give  you  ?" 

"  Can  you  ask,  my  child  ?"  he  said,  and 
pressed  her  hand  within  his  own. — "You 
wall  be  my  friend,  my  counselor,  my  com- 
panion." 

"  Companion  ?" 

"  Wearied  with  the  toils  of  state,  the  wear 
and  tear  of  the  world, — in  your  presence,  I 
will  seek  oblivion  of  the  w^orld  and  its  cares. 
With  you  I  will  grow  young  again,  and — 
w'ho  knows  —  but  guided  by  you,  I  shall, 
even  at  three-score,  learn  to  hope  in  man  ? 
Your  heart  is  fresh,  your  intellect  clear  and 
vivid  :  I  shall  often  seek  your  counsel  in 
affairs  of  state,  for  I  have  learned,  that  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten,  it  is  better  to  rely  upon  the 
intuitions  of  woman,  than  upon  the  careful 
logic  of  the  shrewdest  man.  In  a  word, 
dear  child,  you  will  be  my  companion, — my 
divinity" — 
"  Divinity  ?" 

"Yes,  —  divinity!  Tradition  says  that 
Lucretia  Borgia  was  the  most  wondrously 
beautiful  woman  of  all  her  age ;  and  if 


11 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


yonder  canvas  does  not  flatter  her,  tradition 
doea  not  lie.    Now,  you  are  living  and  more 
beautiful  than  Lucretia  Borgia,  without  her 
crimes.     Yes,  more  lovely  than  Lucretia, 
and, — pure  as  heaven's  own  light." 
"  Pure  as  heaven's  own  light  ?" 
"You  echo  me, — and  with  a  mocking 
smile.    Woman  !  your  beauty  maddens  me  ! 
I  adore  you !"    His  face  was  flushed  with 
passion, — his  deep-set  eyes  flamed  with  a 
fire  that  could  not  be  mistaken, — his  voice,  at 
other  times  deep  as  an  organ,  was  tremulous 
and  broken.     First   pressing  her  clasj^ed 
hands  against  his  broad  chest, — which  heaved 
with  emotion, — he  next  girdled  her  waist 
with  his  sinewy  arm,  and  despite  her  strug- 
gles, drew  her  to  his  bosom.    "  Gaze  upon 
yonder  portrait !  those  eyes  are  wildly  beau- 
tiful, but  pale  when  compared  with  yours. 
That  form  is  cast  in  the  mould  of  voluptu- 
ous loveliness,  but  yours, — yours,  Esther, — 
yours — " 

Advancing  toward  the  portrait,  he  pushed 
the  hangings  aside, — the  doorway  of  an  ad- 
joining apartment  was  revealed. 

"  Come,  Esther,  by  heavens  you  must  be 
mine, — and  now  !" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  determination 
of  that  husky  voice,  the  passion  of  that 
bloodshot  eye. 

Now  pale  as  death,  now  covered  from  the 
bosom  to  the  brow  with  burning  blushes,  she 
•truggled  in  his  embrace,  but  in  vain.  He 
dragged  her  near  and  nearer  to  the  threshold — 
on  the  threshold  (which  divided  the  Golden 
Room  from  the  next  apartment,  where  all  was 
dark  as  midnight)  he  paused,  drew  her  strug- 
gling form  to  his  breast,  and  stifled  the  cry 
wbich  rose  to  her  lips,  with  burning  kisses. 

With  a  desperate  effort  she  glided  from 
his  arms,  and  the  next  moment, — her  hair 
unloosed  on  her  bosom  bared  in  the  struggle,— 
confronted  him  with  the  poniard  gleaming 
over  her  head. 

"  Hoary  villain  !"  she  cried,  dilating  in 
every  inch  of  her  stature,  until  she  seemed  to 
rival  his  almost  giant  height, — "lay  but  a 
finger  on  me  and  you  shall  pay  for  the  out-  ; 
fage  with  your  life  !" 

Her  head  thrown  back,  her  bared  bosom 
swelling  madly  in  the  light,  her  dark  hair 
resting  in  one  rich,  wavy  mass  upon  her  neck 
«nd  shoulders, — it  was  a  noble  picture.  And 


161 

her  eyes, — you  should  have  seen  the  flashing 
of  her  eyes  !  As  for  the  statesman,  with 
one  foot  upon  the  threshold,  he  turned  his 
face  over  his  shoulder,  thus  exhibiting  his 
massive  features  in  profile,  and  gazed  upon 
her  with  a  look  which  was  something  be- 
tween the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous ;  a 
strange  mixture  of  passion,  wonder  and 
chagrin. 

"  Esther,  " 

"  No  doubt  you  can  induce  husbands  to 
sell  their  wives  to  you ; "  the  eyes  still 
flashed,  and  the  poniard  glittered  overhead  ; 
"no  doubt,  gray-haired  fathers  have  sold  their 
daughters  to  your  embrace  ;  nay,  even  broth- 
ers, for  a  place,  may  have  given  their  sisters 
to  your  lust ;  but  know,"  again  that  bitter 
word  so  bitterly  said, — *  hoary  villain  ! '  — 
"  know,  hoary  villain  !  that  Esther  Royalton 
will  not  sell  herself  to  you,  even  to  purchase 
her  brother's  safety,  his  life,  much  less  her 
own  !  For  know,  that  while  there  is  a  taint 
upon  my  blood,  that  there  is  blood  in  my 
veins  which  never  knew  dishonor,  the  blood 

of    ,  whose  grandchild  stands 

before  you  ! " 

As  she  named  that  name,  Godlike  repeated 
it  from  pure  astonishment. 

"  You  a  statesman !  you  a  leader  of  the 
American  people  !  Faugh  !  (Back  !  Lay 
not  a  finger  upon  me  as  you  value  your  life  !) 
May  God  help  the  Eepublic  whose  leaders 
play  the  farce  of  solemn  statesmanship  by 
daylight,  and  at  night  seek  their  inspiration 
in  the  orgies  of  the  brothel !  " 

"  But,  Esther,  you  mistake  me  ;  do  not 

raise  your  voice,  "  his  face  flushed,  his 

eyes  bloodshot,  he  advanced  toward  her. 

At  the  same  instant  she  caught  the  pur- 
pose of  his  eye,  and  with  a  blush  of  mingled 
shame  and  anger,  for  the  first  time  be- 
came aware  that  her  bosom  was  bared  to  the 
light. 

She  retreated, — Godlike  advanced, — she, 
brandishing  the  dagger, — he,  with  his  hands 
extended,  his  face  mad  with  bafiled  passion. 
Thus  retreating,  step  by  step  before  him,  she 
reached  the  table,  and  cast  a  lightning  glance 
toward  the  lamp. 

"  You  shall  be  mine,  I  swear  it ! "  He 
darted  forward. 

But  while  her  right  hand  held  the  dagger 
aloft,  her  left  sought  the  lamp,  and  even  as 


162  IN  THE 

he  rushed  forward  with  the  oath  on  his  lips, 
the  room  was  wrapt  in  utter  darkness. 

He  was  foiled.  A  mocking  laugh,  which 
resounded  through  the  darkness,  did  not  add 
to  his  composure. 

"  Esther,  Esther,"  he  said,  in  a  softer  tone, 
endeavoring  to  smother  his  rage,  *'  I  will  not 
harn  you,  I  swear  it." 

And  with  his  hands  extended  he  advanced 
in  the  thick  gloom  ;  and  Esther,  with  the 
handle  of  her  poniard,  knocked  thrice  upon 
the  ebony  table. 

"Dearest  Esther," — he  advanced  in  the 
direction  from  whence  the  knocks  proceeded, 
and  came  in  contact  with  a  form, — the  form 
of  a  voluptuous  woman,  with  a  young  bosom 
warm  with  life,  and  young  limbs  moulded 
in  the  flowing  lines  of  the  Medicean  Venus  ? 
No.  Precisely  the  contrary.  But  he  came 
in  contact  with  a  brawny  form,  which  bound- 
ed against  him,  pinioning  his  arms  to  his 
side,  at  the  same  moment  that  another 
brawny  form  clasped  him  from  behind.  In 
a  moment,  ere  he  had  recovered  the  surprise 
caused  by  this  double  and  unexpected  em- 
brace, his  arms  were  tied  behind  his  back,  a 
handkerchief  was  tightly  bound  across  his 
mouth,  and  a  second  kerchief  across  his  eyes, 
he  was  lifted  from  his  feet,  and  borne  upon 
the  shoulders  of  two  muscular  men.  It  was 
not  dignified  or  statesmanlike,  but, — histori- 
cal truth  demands  the  record, — while  in  this 
position,  the  grave  statesman  kicked,  deliber- 
ately and  wickedly  kicked.  But  he  kicked 
in  vain. 

Presently  he  was  placed  upon  his  feet 
again,  and  seated  in  a  chair  whose  oaken 
back  reached  above  his  head,  and  whose 
oaken  arms  pressed  against  his  sides.  Ho 
could  not  see,  but  he  felt  that  light  was 
shining  on  his  face. 

So  suddenly  had  his  capture  been  achieved, 
so  strange  and  complete  was  the  transition 
from  the  pursuit  of  the  beautiful  Esther,  to 
his  present  blindfolded  and  helpless  condi- 
tion, that  the  statesman,  for  a  few  moments, 
almost  believed  himself  the  victim  of  some 
grotesque  and  frightful  dream. 

All  was  silent  around  him. 

At  length  a  voice  was  heard,  hollow  and 
distinct  in  its  every  tone, — 

"  Gabriel  Godlike,  you  are  now  about  to  be 
put  on  trial  before  the  Court  of  Ten  Millions."  I 


TEMPLE.  ' 

There  was  a  long  pause ;  and  Godlike,  on 
the  moment,  remembered  every  detail  which 
Harry  Royalton  had  poured  into  his  ears, 
concerning  this  Court  of  Ten  Millions;  its 
power  backed  by  ten  millions  of  dollars,— 
its  jurisdiction  over  crimes  that  'Courts  of  I 
Justice'  could  not  reach, — its  sessions  held 
in  the  deep  silence  of  night,  and  its  judg- 
ments executed  as  soon  as  pronounced.  Viv- 
idly the  story  of  Harry  rose  before  him ;  the 
accusation,  the  trial,  the  judgment,  the  lash, 
and  the  back  of  the  criminal  covered  with 
stripes  and  blood. 

"  The  Court  of  Ten  Millions," — the  voice 
was  heard  again, — "  as  you  are,  doubtless, 
aware,  is  thus  called,  because  its  power  is 
backed  by  ten  millions  of  dollars.  It  exists 
to  punish  those  crimes  which,  perchance, 
from  their  very  magnitude,  go  unpunished 
by  other  courts  of  justice.  It  exists  to  judge 
and  punish  two  classes  of  crime  in  especial : 
crimes  committed  for  the  hve  of  money,  by 
the  man  who  seeks  to  enjoy  labor's  fruits, 
without  sharing  labor's  works ;  crimes  com- 
mitted by  the  man  who  uses  his  wealth,  or 
the  accideni  of  his  social  position,  as  the  means 
of  oppressing  his  fellow-creature,  even  the 
poorest  and  the  meanest.  Your  mind  is  pro- 
found in  analysis.  You  are  able,  at  a  glance, 
to  trace  nearly  all  the  wrongs  which  desolate 
society,  and  mar  the  purposes  of  God  in  this 
world,  to  the  classes  of  crimes  which  have 
been  named." 

There  was  another  long  pause.  Gabriel 
had  time  for  thought. 

"  Gabriel  Godlike  !  Detected  in  a  gross 
outrage  upon  a  woman  whom  you  thought 
poor  and  friendless, — detected  in  using  your 
wealth  and  your  social  position  as  the  means 
of  achieving  that  woman's  dishonor,  you  are 
now  about  to  be  put  on  trial  before  the  Court 
of  Ten  Millions." 

Another  pause.    Gabriel  began  to  recover, 
his  scattered  senses.     The  bandage  across, 
his  mouth   concealed   the  sardonic  smile 
which  flitted  over  his  lips. 

"A  sort  of  Vixhme  Qtricht,  —  something 
from  the  dark  ages,"  —  he  ejaculated,  men- 
tally. And  yet  he  did  not  feel  comfortable. 
There  was  Harry  Royalton's  back ;  he  had 
seen  it.  "  But  they  would  not  dare  to  flog  a 
statesman, — me  !  Gabriel  Godlike  ! " 

"  Still  you  are  at  liberty  to  refuse  a  tria* 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


165 


before  this  court," — the  voice  spoke  again, — 
*'  but  upon  one  condition.  In  a  room  not  far 
removed  from  this,  removed  from  hearing, 
tod  yet  within  a  moment's  call,  are  gathered 
I  at  this  moment  a  number  of  gentlemen,  who 
have  been  summoned  to  this  house  on  vari- 
ous pretexts ;  gentlemen,  you  will  remark, 
of  all  political  parties,  high  in  social  posi- 
tion, and  bearing  the  reputation  of  honorable 
minded  and  moral  men.  Your  strongest 
political  friends,  your  bitterest  political  op- 
ponents are  there." 

Gabriel  began  to  listen  with  attention. 

**  Now  you  may  refuse  to  be  tried  before 
this  court  on  one  condition, — that  you  will 
be  exposed  to  the  gaze  of  this  party  of  gen- 
tlemen, in  your  present  state,  with  your 
masquerade  attire,  and  in  presence  of  the 
woman  whom,  but  a  moment  since,  you 
threatened  with  a  gross  outrage." 

Gabriel  listened  with  keener  interest. 

"If  you  doubt  that  this  party  of  gentle- 
men, consisting  of — (he  named  a  number  of 
names  familiar  to  Godlike's  ear) — are  within 
call,  your  doubt  can  be  solved  in  a  moment." 

"It  is  an  infernal  trap,"  and  Gabriel 
ground  his  teeth  with  suppressed  rage. 

"  If  you  consent  to  be  tried  by  this  court, 
be  pleased  to  give  a  gesture  of  assent." 

Gabriel  revolved  for  a  moment  within 
himself,  and  then  slowly  nodded  his  head. 

The  bandage  was  removed  from  his  eyes, 
and  the  kerchief  from  his  mouth.  He  slowly 
surveyed  the  scene  in  which,  much  against 
his  will,  he  found  himself  an  actor. 

It  ^vajs  a  spacious  apartment,  resembling 
the  Golden  Room,  the  walls  were  hung  with 
black  velvet,  fringed  with  gold,  and  dotted 
with  golden  flowers  ;  the  ceiling  represented 
a  gloomy  sky,  with  the  sun  in  the  center, 
straggling  among  clouds.  It  was  the 
same  to  which  he  was  about  to  conduct 
Esther  when  she  escaped  from  his  arms  and 
confronted  him  with  the  poniard. 

But  in  place  of  the  voluptuous  couch 
which  had  stood  there,  with  silken  pillows 
and  canopy  white  as  snow,  there  was  a  large 
table  covered  with  black  cloth,  and  extend- 
ing across  the  room  froni  wall  to  wall,  and 
behind  the  table  a  raised  platform,  on  which 
stood  an  arm-chair,  beneath  a  canopy  of  dark 
velvet.  A  lighted  candle  in  an  iron  candle- 
itick.  stood  on  the  center  of  the  table,  and 


near  it,  a  knotted  rope,  a  book,  an  inkstand, 
and  a  sheet  of  white  paper. 

The  judge  of  the  court  was  seated  in  the 
arm-chair,  under  the  shadow  of  the  canopy. 
His  face  Godlike  could  not  see,  for  ho  wore 
a  hat  whose  ample  brim  concealed  his  fea- 
tures, but  his  white  hair  descended  to  the 
collar  of  his  coat.  He  wore  an  old-fashioned 
surtout  of  dark  cloth,  with  manifold  capes, 
about  the  shoulders.  His  head  was  bent,  his 
hands  clasped,  his  attitude  that  of  profound 
quiet  or  profound  thought. 

On  his  left,  resting  one  hand  on  the  arm 
of  his  chair,  was  Esther ;  her  white  dress  in 
bold  relief  with  the  dark  background.  Her 
unbound  hair  increased  the  deathlike  pallor 
of  her  face,  and  her  eyes  shone  with  all  their 
fire. 

And  on  the  right  of  the  judge  stood  a  huge 
negro,  whose  giant  frame  was  clad  in  a  suit 
of  sleek  blue  cloth,  while  his  white  cravat 
and  his  wool,  also  of  snow-like  whiteness, 
increased  the  blackness  of  his  visage.  It 
was,  of  course,  old  Royal.  He  also  rested 
one  hand  on  an  arm  of  the  judge's  chair. 

And  on  the  right  and  left  of  Gabriel's 
chair,  stood  a  muscular  man,  whose  features 
were  hidden  by  a  crape  mask. 

The  scene  altogether  was  highly  dramatic. 
The  Borgian  attire  of  Godlike  by  no  means 
detracted  from  its  dramatic  efifect. 

The  silence  of  the  place,  —  the  gloom 
scarcely  broken  by  the  light  of  the  solitary 
candle, — the  contrast  between  this  scene  and 
the  one  in  which  he  had  been  an  actor  but  a 
few  moments  previous, — all  had  their  efifect 
upon  the  mind  of  the  statesman. 

"  A  trap  !  get  out  of  it  as  I  may.  An  in- 
fernal trap !" 

Without  raising  his  head,  or  removing  his 
clasped  hands  from  his  breast,  the  judge 
spoke,  in  an  even  and  distinct,  although  hol- 
low voice, — 

"  You  may  still  refuse  to  be  tried  by  this 
court.  Consent  to  be  exposed  in  your  pres- 
ent condition  to  the  gentlemen  whom  I  have 
named,  (and  who  may  be  brought  hither  in 
an  instant),  and  the  trial  will  not  proceed." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Gabriel's  face,  but  he 
made  no  reply. 

"Or,  if  you  doubt  that  those  gentlemen 
are  near,  it  is  not  too  late  to  remove  your 
doubts." 


IN  THE 


TEMPLE. 


The  veins  began  to  swell  on  Gabriel's 
forehead. 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  in  a  half-smothered 
tone. 

The  judge  extended  his  hand  and  placed 
a  parchment  in  the  hands  of  Esther. 

"  Read  the  accusation,"  he  said,  and  in  a 
voice  at  first  low  and  faint,  but  gradually 
growing  stronger  and  deeper,  Esther  read, 
while  a  death-like  stillness  prevailed: 

"  Gabriel  Godlike  is  accused  of  the  follow- 
ing offenses  against  man,  against  society, 
against  God  : — 

"As  a  man  of  genius,  intrusted  by  the 
Almighty  with  the  noblest,  the  most  exalted 
powers,  and  bound  to  use  those  powers  for 
the  good  of  his  race,  he  has,  in  the  course  of 
his  whole  life,  prostituted  those  powers  to 
the  degradation  and  oppression  of  his  race. 

"  As  a  statesman,  rivaling  in  intellect  the 
three  great  names  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
Clay,  Calhoun  and  Webster,  he  has  not,  like 
these  great  men,  been  governed  by  a  high 
aim,  an  earnest-souled  sincerity.  His  intel- 
lect approaches  theirs  in  powers,  but  as  a 
man,  as  a  statesman,  he  has  not  exhibited 
their  virtues.  Wielding  a  vast  influence, 
and  bound  to  use  that  influence  in  securing 
to  the  masses  such  laws  as  will  invest  every 
man  with  the  right  to  the  full  fruits  of  his 
labor,  and  the  possession  of  a  home,  he  has 
lent  his  influence,  sold  his  intellect,  mort- 
gaged his  official  position,  to  those  who  en- 
slave labor  in  workshop  and  factory,  defraud 
it  in  banks,  and  rob  the  laborer — the  free- 
man— of  a  piece  of  land  which  he  may  call 
by  the  sacred  title  of  home. 

"As  a  lawyer,  having  a  profound  know- 
ledge of  the  technicalities  of  Avritten  law,  and 
an  intuitive  knowledge  of  that  great  law 
of  God,  which  proclaims  that  all  men  are 
brothers,  bound  to  each  other  by  ties  of 
reciprocal  love  and  duty,  he  has  used  his 
knowledge  of  written  law  to  gloss  over  and 
sanction  the  grossest  wrongs;  he  has  darkened 
and  distorted  the  great  laws  of  God  to  suit 
any  case  of  social  tyranny,  no  matter  how 
damning,  how  revolting,  which  he  has  been 
called  upon  to  defend  for  hire. 

"As  a  citizen,  bound  to  illustrate  in  his 
life  the  purity  of  the  christian,  the  integrity 
of  the  republican,  he  has  never  known  the 
affections  of  a  wife,  or  children,  but  his  pri- 


vate career  has  been  one  long  catalogue  of 
the  basest  appetites,  gratified  at  the  expense- 
of  every  tie  of  truth  and  honor. 

"  In  his  long  career,  he  has  exhibited  that 
saddest  of  all  spectacles  : — a  lawyer,  with  no 
sense  of  right  or  wrong,  higher  than  his  feej 
a  statesman,  regarding  himself  not  as  the 
representative  of  the  people,  but  as  the  feed 
and  purchased  lawyer  of  a  class  ;  a  man  of 
god-like  intellect,  without  faith  in  God, 
without  love  for  his  race." 

Esther  concluded ;  her  face  was  radiant, 
but  her  eyes  dimmed  with  tears. 

"  Gabriel  Godlike,  what  say  you  to  this 
accusation  ?"  exclaimed  the  judge. 

A  sardonic  smile  agitated  the  lips  of  the 
statesman,  but  he  made  no  reply  in  words. 
At  the  same  time,  despite  his  attempt  to 
meet  the  accusation  with  a  sneer,  its  words 
rung  in  his  very  soul,  and  especially  the 
closing  clause,  without  faith  in  God,  without 
love  to  his  race.^^ 

Gabriel's  head  sank  slowly  on  his  breast,.' 
and  his  doAvn-drawn  brows  hid  his  eyes  from 
the  light.  He  was  thinking  of  other  years  ; 
of  the  promise  of  his  young  manhood  ;  of  the 
dark  realities  of  his  maturer  years.  The 
judge  spoke  again. 

"  Gabriel  Godlike,  you  are  silent.  You 
have  no  reply.  In  your  own  soul  and  before 
Heaven,  you  know  that  every  word  of  the 
accusation  is  true.  You  cannot  deny  it. 
Your  own  soul  and  conscience  convict  you." 

He  paused ;  again  the  mocking  sneer 
crossed  Gabriel's  lips,  but  a  crowd  of  emo- 
tions were  busy  at  his  heart.  The  judge 
proceeded,  in  a  measured  tone.  Every  word 
fell  distinctly  upon  the  statesman's  unwilling 
ears  : 

"  Gabriel  Godlike,  you  may  smile  at  the 
idea  of  being  held  accountable  to  God  and 
man,  for  the  use  which  you  have  made  of 
your  talents  in  the  last  forty  years,  but  there 
will  come  an  hour  when  History  will  pass 
its  judgment  upon  you  ;  there  will  come  an 
hour  when  God  will  demand  of  you  the  in- 
tellect which  he  has  intrusted  to  your  care. 
That  hour  will  come.  Then,  what  will  be 
your  answer  to  Almighty  God  ?"  *  Lord, 
thou  didst  intrust  me  with  superior  intellect, 
to  be  used  for  the  good  of  my  brothers  of 
the  human  family  ;  and  after  a  life  of  sixty 
years,  I  can  truly  say,  I  have  never  once 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


used  that  intellect  for  the  elevation  of  man- 
kind,  and  have  never  once  failed,  when  ap- 
petite or  ambition  tempted,  to  squander  it  in 
the  basest  lusts.'     What  a  record  will  this 
j  ,  be  for  history ;  what  an  answer  to  be  ren- 
:f|  I  dered  to  Almighty  God  ! 
^  °     "  Gabriel  Godlike  !  Great  men  are  placed 
upon  earth,  as  the  prophets  and  apostles  of 
the  poor.    It  is  their  vocation  to  speak  the 
wrongs  which  the  poor  suffer,  but  are  unable 
to  tell ;  it  is  their  mission  to  find  the  deepest 
•  thought  which  God  has  implanted  in  the 
breast  of  the  age,  and  to  carry  that  thought 
^   into  action,  or  die.    What  has  been  the 
;i  thought  struggling  in  the  bosom  of  the  last 
Ij  j  fifty  years  ?    A  thought  vast  as  the  provi- 
I  dence  of  God,  which,  whether  called  by  the 
i,  name  of  Social  Progress,  or  Social  Ee-organi- 
.  I;  zation,  or  by  whatsoever  name,  still  looks  for- 
j  ward  to  the  day  when  social  misery  will  be 
,  j  annihilated  ;  when  the  civilization  will  no 
!  longer  show  itself  only  in  the  awful  contrast 
of  the  few,  immersed  in  superflous  wealth,— 
]  of  the  many,  immersed  in  poverty,  in  crime, 
^  I  in  despair  ;  a  day,  when  in  truth,  the  gospel 
j^'l  of  the  New  Testament  will  no  longer  be  the 
ij^^l  hollow  echo  of  the  sounding-board  above  the 
I  pulpit,  but  an  every-day  verity,  carried  with 
deeds  along  all  the  ways  of  life,  and  mani- 
I  fested  in  the  physical  comfort  as  well  as  the 
'  moral  elevation  of  all  men. 

"  Something  like  this  has  been  the  thought 
■   of  the  last  fifty— yes,  of  the  last  hundred  years. 
It  was  the  secret  heart  of  our  own  Revolu- 
tion.   It  was  the  great  truth,  whose  features 
you  may  read  even  beneath  the  blood-red 
°,    waves  of  the  French  Revolution.    And  in 
the  nineteenth   century  this  thought  has 
called  into  action  legions  of  noble-hearted 
men,  who   have   earnestly  endeavored  to 
^    carry  it  into  action.  It  has  had  its  confessors, 

its  saints,  its  martyrs. 
^       "  Gabriel  Godlike  !  In  the  course  of  your 
long  career,  what  have  you  done  to  aid  the 
'    development  of  this  thought  ?    Alas  !  alas  ! 
Look  back  upon  your  life !    In  all  your 
career,  not  one  brave  blow  for  man — your 
'    brother — not  one,  not  6ne  !  As  a  lawyer,  the 
hired  vassal  of  any  wealthy  villain,  or  class 
of  villains ;  as  a  legislator,  not  a  statesman, 
but  always  the  paid  special  pleader  of  heart- 
less monopoly  and  godless  capital ;    as  a 
man,  your  intellect  always  towers  among  the 


165 

stars,  while  your  moral  character  sinks  be- 
neath the  kennel's  mud  !  Such  has  been 
your  life  ;  such  is  the  use  to  which  you  have 
bent  your  powers.  Like  the  sublime  egotist, 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  you  regarded  the  world 
as  a  world  without  a  God,  and  mankind  as 
the  mere  creatures  of  your  pleasure  and  your 
sport.  If  the  poor  wretch,  who,  driven  mad 
by  hunger,  steals  a  loaf  of  bread,  is  branded 
as  a  CRIMINAL,  and  adjudged  to  darkness 
and  chains,  by  what  name,  Gabriel  Godlike, 
shall  we  call  you  f  what  judgment  shall  we 
pronounce  upon  your  head  ?" 

The  judge  arose,  and  with  his  face  shaded 
from  the  light,  and  his  white  hairs  falling  to 
his  shoulders,  he  extended  his  hand  toward 

the  CRIMINAL. 

There  was  a  blush  of  shame  \i])oti  Gabriel's 
downcast  forehead ;  shame,  mingled  with 
suppressed  rage. 

"  Shall  we  adjudge  you  to  the  lash  ?"  and 
the  judge  looked  first  to  Gabriel,  then  to  the 
giant  negro  by  his  side. 

Godlike  raised  his  head  ;  Esther  shud- 
dered as  she  beheld  his  look. 

"  The  lash  !"  he  echoed,—"  No,  by  ! 

The  man  does  not  live  who  dares  speak  of 
such  a  thing." 

"  I  live,  and  I  speak  of  it,"  responded  the 
judge,  calmly.  "You  forget  that  you  are 
in  my  power  ;  and,  as  you  are  well  aware, 
(it  is  a  maxim  upon  which  you  have  acted 
all  your  life,)  '  might  makes  right.'  And 
why  should  you  shudder  at  the  mention  of 
the  lash  ?  What  is  the  torture,  the  disgrace 
of  the  lash,  compared  with  the  torture  and 
disgrace  which  your  deeds  have  inflicted 
upon  thousands  of  your  fellow  men  ?" 

Godlike  uttered  a  frightful  oath. — "  You 
will  drive  me  mad  !"  and  he  ground  his 
teeth  in  impotent  rage.  It  was  a  pitiful  con- 
dition for  a  great  statesman. 

"  No,  no  ;  the  lash  is  too  light  a  punish- 
ment for  a  criminal  of  your  magnitude. 
Prisoner,  stand  up  and  hear  the  sentence  of 
the  court !" 

Gabriel  had  a  powerful  will,  but  the  will 
which  spoke  in  the  voice  of  that  old  man, 
his  judge,  w^as  more  powerful  than  his  own. 
Reluctantly  he  arose  to  his  feet,  his  broad 
chest  panting  and  heaving  beneath  its  scarlet 
attire. 

"  Unbind  his  arms."  The  masked  attend- 


166  IN  THE 

ants  obeyed.  Gabriel's  hands  were  free. 
"  Secure  hira,  at  the  first  sign  of  resistance  or 
of  disobedience." 

The  judge  calmly  proceeded — 
"  Gabriel  Godlike,  hear  the  sentence  of  the 
court.  You  will  affix  your  own  proper  sig- 
nature to  two  documents,  which  will  now 
be  presented  to  you.  After  which  you  are 
free." 

Gabriel  could  not  repress  an  ejaculation. 
The  simplicity  of  the  sentence  struck  him 
with  astonishment. 

"Hand  the  prisoner  the  first  document, 
which  he  may  read,"  said  the  judge.  Pale 
and  trembling,  Esther  advanced,  and,  passing 
the  table,  placed  a  paper  in  the  hands  of 
Godlike,  which  he  read  : 

"  New  Yobk,  Dec.  24th,  1844. 
"  The  undersigned,  Gabriel  Godlike,  hereby 
acknowledges  that  he  was  this  day  detected 
in  the  act  of  attempting  a  gross  outrage  upon 
the  person  of  Esther  Royalton,  whom  he 
had  inveigled  to  a  house  of  improper  report. 

No.  — ,  street,  New  York  :  an  outrage 

"which,  investigated  before  a  court  of  law, 
would  justly  consign  him  to  the  State's 
Prison. 

"  Signed  in  presence  of  | 

No  words  can  picture  the  rage  which  cor- 
rugated Godlike's  visage  as  he  perused  this 
singular  document. 

"  No,  I  will  not  sign  !" — he  fixed  his  flaming 
eyes  upon  Esther's  pallid  face — "  not  if  you 
rend  me  into  fragments." 

"Esther,"  said  the  judge,  calmly,  "call 
the  gentlemen  from  the  neighboring  apart- 
ment. Tell  them  that  the  purpose  for  which 
I  summoned  them  will  be  explained  in  this 
room." 

Esther  cast  a  glance  upon  Godlike's  flushed 
visage,  and  moved  to  the  door, — 

"  Stay  !  I  will  —  I  will  !"  Shame  and 
mortification  choked  his  utterance.  He  ad- 
vanced to  the  table  and  signed  his  name  to 
the  paper. 

The  judge  drew  his  broad-brimmed  hat 
deeper  over  his  brows,  and  advanced  to  the 
table. — "  I  will  witness  your  signature,"  he 
quietly  observed,  and  signed  a  name  which 
Godlike  would  have  given  five  years  of  his 
life  to  have  read. 


TEMPLE. 

"  The  second  document  rests  on  the  table 
before  you.  The  writing  is  concealed  by  a 
sheet  of  paper.  You  will  sign  without 
reading  it.  There  is  the  place  for  your  sig- 
nature." And  he  pushed  the  concealed 
document  across  the  table. 

"  This  is  too  much, — it  is  infamous,"  said 
Godlike,  between  his  teeth.  "How  do  I 
know  what  I  am  signing  ?  I  will  not  do  it** 
He  sank  back  doggedly  in  his  chair  ;  the 
perspiration  stood  in  thick  beads  upon  his 
brow. 

"  Esther,"  (she  lingered  on  the  threshold, 
as  the  judge  addressed  her,)  "tell  Mr.  God- 
like's friends  that  he  will  be  glad  to  see 
them." 

Oh !  bitterly,  in  that  moment,  did  the 
fallen  statesman  pay  for  the  misdeeds  of 
years !  As  if  urged  from  his  seat  by  an 
influence  beyond  his  control,  he  rose  and 
advanced  to  the  table,  his  brow  deformed  by 
the  big  veins  of  helpless  rage,  his  eyes  blood- 
shot with  suppressed  fury, — he  signed  his 
name.    His  hand  trembled  like  a  leaf. 

"  Now,  now — am  I  free  ?"  he  cried,  beat- 
ing the  table  with  his  clenched  hand* 
"  Have  you  done  with  me  ?"  He  turned  hia 
gaze  from  Esther,  who  stood  trembling  on 
the  threshold,  to  the  judge,  who,  with  his 
shadowed  face,  stood  calm  and  composed 
before  him. 

"  I  will  witness  your  signature,"  said  the 
judge,  and  again  signed  that  name,  which 
Godlike,  even  amid  his  wrath,  endeavored, 
and  in  vain,  to  read. 

At  the  same  instant  he  placed  his  hand 
upon  the  candle,  and  all  was  darkness.  In 
less  time  than  it  takes  to  record  it,  Godlike 
was  seized,  pinioned  and  blindfolded. 

"  You  will  be  taken  to  your  dressing-room, 
in  which  you  will  resume  your  usual  attire, 
after  which,  without  questioning  or  seeing 
any  one,  you  will  quietly  leave  this  house. 
As  for  the  gentlemen  whom  I  summoned  to 
this  house  to  look  upon  your  disgrace,  I  will 
manage  to  dismiss  them,  without  mentioning 
your  name." 

"  And  the  papers  which  you  have  forced 
me  to  sign  ?"  interrupted  Gabriel. 

"Do  not  speak  of  force.  There  was  no 
force  save  the  compulsion  of  your  own 
crimes.  And  I  give  you  fair  warning  that 
those  papers  which  you  have  signed  here  M 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


107 


ilarkness,  you  will  bo  asked  to  sign  yet  once 
again  in  broad  daylight.  Go,  sir:  for  the 
present  we  have  done  with  you." 

And  as  in  thick  darkness  lie  was  led  from 
the  hall,  trembling  with  rage  and  shame,  the 
voice  of  the  judge  once  more  broke  on  his 
cars,  but  this  time  not  addressed  to  him  : 

"  Pity,  good  Lord  !  Pardon  me,  if  I  am 
wrong !" 

It  was  the  voice  of  earnest  prayer. 
CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  BRIDAL  CHAMBER. 

It  was  the  bridal  chamber.  A  strange 
hour,  and  a  strange  bridal ! 

In  the  luxurious  apartment,  w^here  Name- 
less and  Frank  first  met,  a  Holy  Bible  was 
placed  wide  open  upon  a  table,  or  altar,  cov- 
ered with  a  snow-white  cloth.  On  either 
side  of  the  book  w^ere  placed  wax  candles, 
shedding  their  clear  light  around  the  room, 
upon  the  details  of  the  place,  and  upon  the 
gorgeous  curtains  of  the  marriage-bed. 

Frank  and  Nameless  joined  hands  beside 
that  altar,  before  the  opened  Bible.  Never 
had  Frank's  magnetic  beauty  shone  with 
such  peculiar  power.  She  was  clad  in  black 
velvet,  her  dark  hair  gathered  plainly  aside 
from  her  brow,  and  the  white  cross  rose  and 
fell  with  every  throb  of  her  bosom.  Name- 
less wore  the  black  tunic  which,  with  his 
dark  brown  hair,  threw  his  features  into 
strong  relief.  The  golden  cross  hung  on  his 
breast,  over  his  heart.  He  was  pale,  as  if 
with  intense  thought,  but  his  large,  gray 
eyes  met  the  gaze  cf  Frank,  as  though  his 
soul  was  riveted  there. 

And  thus  they  joined  hands,  near  the 
morning  hour. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Bulgin  stood  a  little  in  the 
background,  his  broad  red  face  glowing  in 
the  light.  His  cardinal's  attire  thrown  aside, 
he  appeared  in  sleek  black,  with  the  eternal 
white  cravat  about  his  neck.  There  was  the 
flush  of  champagne  upon  the  good  doctor's 
florid  face. 

Behind  Nameless  stood  Colonel  Tarleton, 
dressed  as  the  hidalgo,  his  right  hand  grasp- 
ing a  roll  of  paper,  raised  to  his  mouth,  and 
his  eyes  gazing  fixedly  from  beneath  his 
down-drawn  brows.  It  was  the  moment  of 
his  life. 

11 


"  Once  married  and  the  way  is  clear ! "  he 
thought.  "To  think  of  it  —  after  twenty- 
one  years  my  hand  grasps  the  prize  !" 

"  We  will  walk  through  life  together," 
said  Frank,  pressing  the  hand  of  Nameless. 

"  And  devote  our  wealth  to  the  elevation 
of  the  unfortunate  and  the  fallen  ! "  ho  res- 
ponded, as  a  vision  of  future  good  gave  new 
fire  to  his  eye.  And  then  he  pressed  his 
hand  to  his  forehead,  for  his  temples  throb- 
bed. A  vivid  mem'ory  of  every  event  of 
his  past  life  started  up  suddenly  before  his 
soul,  every  event  invested  with  the  familiar 
faces,  the  well-known  voices  of  other  days. 
He  raised  his  eyes  to  the  face  of  Frank,  and 
the  singular  influence  which  seemed  to  in- 
vest her  like  an  atmosphere,  again  took  pos- 
session of  him.  It  was  not  the  influence  of 
passion,  nor  the  spell  of  her  mere  loveliness, 
although  her  person  was  voluptuously 
moulded,  and  the  deep  red  in  the  center  of 
her  rich  brown  cheek,  told  the  story  of  a 
warm  and  passionate  nature ;  but  it  was  as 
though  her  very  soul,  embodied  in  her  lus- 
trous eyes,  encircled  and  possessed  his  own. 

Was  it  love,  in  the  common  acceptation  of 
the  word  ?  Was  it  fascination  ?  Was  it  the 
result  of  sympathy  between  two  lives,  each, 
of  which  had  been  made  the  sport  of  a  dark 
and  singular  destiny  ? 

"  Had  not  we  better  go  on  ?  "  said  Dr.  Bul- 
gin, mildly.  "  Summoned  to  this  house  to 
celebrate  these  nuptials  at  this  unusual  hour, 
I  feel  somewhat  fatigued  with  the  duties  of 
the  day,"  and  he  winked  at  Tarleton. 

*'  Proceed,"  said  Tarleton,  pressing  the 
right  hand,  with  the  roll  of  paper  to  his 
lip. 

The  marriage  service  was  deliberately  said 
in  the  rich,  bold  voice  of  the  eloquent  Dr. 
Bulgin.  The  responses  were  duly  made. 
The  ring  was  placed  upon  the  finger  of  the 
bride,  and  the  white  cross  sparkled  in  the 
light,  as  it  rose  with  the  swell  of  her  proud 
bosom. 

"Husband,"  she  whispered,  as  their  lips 
met,  "  I  have  been  sacrificed  to  others,  but  I 
never  loved  but  you,  and  I  will  love  you  till 
I  die."    And  she  spoke  the  truth. 

"  Wife  !  " — he  called  that  sacred  name  in 
a  low  and  softened  voice, — "let  the  past  be 
forgotten.  Arisen  from  the  graves  of  our 
past  lives,  it  is  our  part  to  begin  life  anew.'* 


168  IN  THE 

And  his  tone  was  that  of  truth  and  enthu- 
siasm. 

"  My  son  ! " — Tarleton  started  forward  and 
clasped  Nameless  by  the  hand, — "Gulian, 
my  son,  let  the  past  be  forgotten, — forgiven, 
and  let  us  look  only  to  the  future  !  The 
proudest  aspiration  of  my  life  is  fulfilled  !" 

Nameless  returned  his  grasp  with  a  cordial 
pressure  ;  but  at  the  same  instant  a  singular 
sensation  crept  like  a  chill  through  his  blood. 
Was  the  presence  of  the  dead  father  near  at 
the  moment  when  his  son  joined  hands  with 
the  false  brother  ? 

"Here,  my  boy,"  continued  Tarleton, 
laughingly,  as  he  spread  forth  upon  the  table 
the  roll  of  paper  which  he  had  held  to  his 
lip ;  "  sign  this,  and  we  will  bid  you  good 
night.  It's  a  mere  matter  of  form,  you 
know.  Nay,  Frank,  you  must  not  see  it; 
you  women  know  nothing  of  these  matters 
of  business."  Motioning  his  daughter  back, 
he  placed  pen  and  ink  before  Nameless,  and 
then  quietly  arranged  his  dark  whiskers  and 
smoothed  his  black  hair ;  and  yet  his  hand 
trembled. 

Nameless  took  the  pen,  and  bent  over  the 
table  and  read  : — 

December  24,  1844. 
To  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer  :  — 

This  day  I  transfer  and  assign  to  my  wife, 
dances  Van  Huyden,  all  my  right,  title,  and 
inierest  in  the  estate  of  my  deceased  fatlier, 
Oulian  Van  Huyden  ;  and  hereby  promise,  on 
my  word  of  honor,  to  hold  this  transfer  sacred 
at  all  times,  and  to  maJce  it  binding  {if  re- 
quested), by  a  document  drawn  up  according  to 
the  forms  of  law. 

Nameless  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink,  and 
was  about  to  sign,  when  Frank  suddenly 
drew  the  paper  from  beneath  his  hand.  She 
read  it  with  a  kindling  cheek  and  flashing  eye. 

"For  shame!"  she  cried,  turning  to  her 
father,  "for  shame  !"  and  was  about  to  rend 
it  in  twain,  when  Nameless  seized  her  wrist, 
and  took  the  paper  from  her  hand. 

"Nay,  Frank,  I  will  sign,"  he  exclaimed, 
and  put  the  pen  to  the  paper. 

"0,  father,"  whispered  Frank,  with  a 
glance  of  burning  indignation,  "this  is  too 
much — "  Her  words  were  interrupted  by 
the  sudden  opening  of  the  door. 


TEMPLE.  '  ] 

"Is  there  no  way  of  escape. — none  ?" — 
voice  was  heard  exclaiming  these  words,  ia 
tones  of  fright  and  madness, — "Is  there  no 
way  of  escape  from  this  abode  of  ruin  and 
death  ?  " 

The  pen  dropped  from  the  hand  of  Name- 
less. That  voice  congealed  the  blood  in^his 
veins. 

Turning  his  head  over  his  shoulders,  he 
saw  the  speaker,  —  while  the  whole  scene 
swam  for  a  moment  before  his  eyes, — saw- 
that  young  countenance,  now  wild  with  af- 
fright, on  which  was  imprinted  the  stainless 
beauty  of  a  pure  and  virgin  soul. 

"  The  grave  has  given  up  its  dead  ! "  he 
cried,  and  staggered  toward  the  phantom 
which  rose  between  him  and  the  door ;  the 
phantom  of  a  young  and  beautiful  woman, 
clad  in  the  faded  garments  of  poverty  and 
toil  ;  her  unbound  hair  streaming  wildly 
about  her  face,  her  eyes  dilating  with  terror, 
her  clasped  hands  strained  a.'^ainst  her  agita- 
ted bosom. 

"The  grave  has  given  up  its  dead,"  he 
cried.  "  Mary  ! "  0,  how  that  name  awoke 
the  memories  of  other  days  !  "  Mary  !  when 
last  I  saw  thee,  thou  wert  beside  my  coflSn, 
while  my  soul  communed  with  thine."  And 
again  he  called  that  sacred  name. 

It  was  no  phantom,  but  a  living  and  beau- 
tiful woman.  She  saw  his  face, — she  uttered 
a  cry, — she  knew  him. 

"  Gulian  ! "  she  cried,  and  spread  forth 
her  arms.  Not  one  thought  that  he  had 
died  and  been  buried, — she  saw  him  living, — 
she  knew  him, — he  was  before  her, — that 
was  all.    "  Husband  ! " 

He  rushed  to  her  embrace,  but  even  as  his 
arms  were  outspread  to  clasp  her  form,  he 
fell  on  his  knees.  His  head  rested  against 
her  form,  his  hands  clasped  her  knees.  The 
emotion  of  the  moment  had  been  too  much 
for  him  ;  he  had  fainted  at  her  feet. 

She  knelt  beside  him,  and  took  his  bead 
to  her  bosom,  and  pressed  her  lips  against 
his  death-like  forehead,  and  then  her  loos- 
ened hair  hid  his  face  from  the  light.  She 
wept  aloud. 

"  Husband  I " 

At  this  moment  turn  your  gaze  to  the 
marriage  altar.     Dr.  Bulgin  is  still  there, 
gazing  in  dumb  surprise,  first  upon  the  face 
I  of  Frank,  then  upon  her  father.    It  is  hard 


PROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


169 


to  tell  which  looks  most  ghastly  and  death- 
like. Tarleton  looks  like  a  man  who  has 
been  stricken  by  a  thunderbolt.  Frank  rests 
one  hand  upon  the  marriage  altar,  and  raises 
the  other  to  her  forehead.  For  a  moment 
death  seems  busy  at  her  heart. 

With  a  desperate  effort,  Tarleton  rallies 
his  presence  of  mind. 

"  Good  evening,  or,  rather,  good  morning, 
4octor,"  he  says,  and  then  points  to  the  door. 
The  reverend  gentleman  takes  the  hint,  and 
quietly  fades  from  the  room. 

At  times  like  this,  one  moment  of  resolve 
|s  worth  an  age.  Tarleton's  face  is  colorless, 
but  he  sees,  with  an  ominous  light  in  his 
eyes,  the  way  clear  before  him.  He  turns 
aside  for  a  moment,  to  the  cabinet  yonder, 
and  from  a  small  drawer,  takes  a  slender 
vial,  filled  with  a  colorless  liquid ;  then 
quietly  glides  to  his  daughter's  side. 

"  Frank  ! " — she  raises  her  head, — their 
eyes  meet.  He  holds  the  vial  before  her  face — 
"your  husband  has  fainted  ;  this  will  revive 
him."  That  singular  smile  discloses  his 
white  teeth.  Frank  reads  his  meaning  at  a 
glance.  0,  the  unspeakable  agony, — the 
conflict  between  two  widely  different  emo- 
tions, which  writhes  over  her  face  ! 

"No,  father,  no  !  It  must  not  be,"  and 
she  pushes  the  vial  from  her  sight. 

His  words,  uttered  rapidly,  and  in  a  whis- 
per, come  tlirough  his  set  teeth, — "  It  must 
be, — the  game  cannot  be  lost  now  ;  in  twelve 
hours,  you  know,  this  vial  will  do  its  work, 
and  leave  no  sign  ! " 

An  expression  which  he  cannot  read, 
crosses  her  face.  A  moment  of  profound 
and  harrowing  thought,  —  a  glance  at  the 
kneeling  girl,  who  hides  in  her  flowing  hair, 
the  face  of  her  unconscious  husband. 

"Be  it  so,"  Frank  exclaims,  "give  me  the 
«^ial ;  I  will  administer  it."  Taking  the  vial 
from  her  father's  hand,  she  advances  to  the 
cabinet,  and  for  a  moment  bends  over  the 
open  drawer. 

And  the  next  instant  she  is  kneeling  be- 
side Nameless  and  the  weeping  girl. 

"Mary  !"  whispers  Frank,  and  the  young 
wife  raises  her  face  from  her  husband's  fore- 
head, and  they  gaze  in  each  other's  face, — a 
contrast  which  you  do  not  often  behold.  The 
face  of  Frank,  dark-hued  at  other  times,  and 
red  with  passion  on  the  cheek  and  lip,  but  \ 


now,  lividly  pale,  and  only  expressing  the 
intensity  of  her  organization  in  the  lightning 
glance  of  the  eyes, — the  face  of  Mary,  al- 
though touched  by  want  and  sorrow,  bearing 
the  look  of  a  guileless,  happy  soul  in  every 
outline,  and  shining  all  the  love  of  a  pure 
woman's  nature  from  the  large,  clear  eyes, 
It  was  as  though  night  and  morning  had 
met  together. 

"  Mary  ! "  said  Frank, — her  hand  trem- 
bling, but  her  purpose  firm, — "  your  husband 
will  die  unless  aid  is  rendered  at  once.  Let 
me  revive  him." 

Before  Mary  can  frame  a  word  in  reply, 
she  places  the  vial  to  the  lips  of  Nameless, 
and  does  not  remove  her  hand  until  the  last 
drop  is  emptied.  Tarleton  yonder  watches 
the  scene,  with  his  head  drooping  on  his 
breast,  and  his  hand  raised  to  his  chin. 

"  He  will  revive  presently,"  Frank  ex- 
claims with  a  smile. 

"  God  bless  you,  generous  woman,  " 

But  Frank  does  not  wait  to  receive  her 
thanks.  . 

Returning  to  her  father's  side, — "  Come, 
let  us  leave  them,  she  w^hispers  ;  "  now 

that  your  request  is  obeyed." 

"But  he  must  not  die  in  this  house." 

"  0,  you  will  have  time,  ample  time  to  re- 
move him  before  the  vial  has  done  its  work," — 
a  bitter  smile  crosses  her  face, — "Leave  them 
together  for  an  hour  at  least.  Let  them  at 
least  enjoy  one  hour  of  life,  before  his  eyes 
are  closed  in  death  ;  only  one  hour,  father !" 

She  takes  her  father  by  the  hand,  and 
hurries  him  from  the  room, — let  us  not  dare 
to  read  the  emotions  now  contending  on  her 
corpse-like  face.  From  that  room,  which 
was  to  have  been  her  bridal  chamber, — the 
starting-point  of  a  new  and  happy  life  ! 

"I  must  now  see  after  the  ofhci;'^  Tarleton 
soliloquizes,  as  he  crossed  the  threshold. 
"  This  one  removed,  tJie  other  must  be  ready 
for  to-morrow." 

And  Frank  and  her  father  leave  the  room. 

The  chest  of  Nameless  began  to  heave, — 
his  eyes  gradually  unclosed.  With  a  vacant 
glance  he  surveyed  the  apartment. 

"It  is  a  dream,"  he  said. 

But  there  were  arms  about  his  neck,  kisses 
on  his  lips,  a  warm  cheek  laid  next  to  his 
own.  Certainly  not  the  clasp,  the  kiss,  or 
the  pressure  of  a  dream. 


170 


IN  THE  TEMPLE. 


"  Not  in  a  ^ream,  Carl,"  she  said,  calling, 
him  by  the  name  which  he  had  borne  in 
other  days. 

"  Carl  ?    Who  calls  me  Carl  ?  " 

"  Not  in  a  dream,  Carl,  but  living  and  re- 
stored to  me." 

Even  as  he  lay  in  her  arms,  his  head  rest- 
ing on  her  young  bosom,  he  raised  his  eyes 
and  beheld  her  face. 

"  Mary  !  " 

*'  Thou  art  my  husband  !  " 

"  Thou  art  my  wife  !  " 

That  moment  was  a  full  recompense  for 
all  they  had  suffered,  yes,  for  a  lifetime  of 
suflferirig  and  anguish.  They  forgot  every- 
thing,— the  dark  past, — the  strange  chance 
or  providence  which  had  brought  them  to- 
gether,— they  only  felt  that  they  were  living 
and  in  each  other's  arms. 

At  sight  of  the  pure,  holy  face  of  Mary, 
all  consciousness  of  the  fascination  which 
Frank  had  held  over  him,  passed  like  the 
memory  of  a  dream  from  the  soul  of  Name- 
less. 

"  0,  Mary,  wife,  thou  art  living, — God  is 
good,"  he  said,  as  she  bent  over  him,  bap- 
tizing his  lips  with  kisses,  and  his  face  Avith 
tears.  "  Do  you  remember  that  hour,  when 
I  lay  in  the  coffin,  while  you  bent  over  me, 
and  our  souls  talked  to  each  other,  without 
the  medium  of  words  :  'you  have  seeji  him 
for  the  last  time,'  they  said;  'not  for  the 
last  time,  —  we  will  meet  again  was  your 
reply.'  And  now  we  have  met !  Mary — 
wife  !  let  us  never  accuse  Providence  again, 
for  Grod  is  good  !" 

Moment  of  joy  too  deep  for  words. 

Drink  every  drop  of  the  cup,  now  held  to 
your  lips,  Carl  Raphael !  For  even,  as  the 
arms  of  your  young  wife  are  about  your 
neck,  even  as  her  young  bosom  throbs 
against  your  cheek,  and  you  count  the  beat- 
ings of  her  heart,  death  spreads  his  shadow 
over  you.  The  poison  is  in  your  veins, — 
your  young  life  is  about  to  set  in  this  world 
forever.  1 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  SCARLET  CHAMBER. 

Having  once  -more  resumed  the  attire  of 
Leo  the  Tenth,  —  scarlet  robe,  cap,  with 
nodding  plumes  and  cross  with  golden  chain ; 


Dr.  Bulgin  was  hurrying  along  a  dark  pas- 
sage on  his  way  to  the  Scarlet  Chamber,  where 
his  nephew  awaited  him.  The  Scarlet  Cham- 
ber was  at  the  end  of  the  passage;  as  he  drew 
near  it,  the  Doctor's  reflections  grew  more 
pleasant  and  comfortable.  It  may  be  as  well 
to  make  record,  that  after  he  had  left  the 
Bridal  Chamber,  he  had  refreshed  himself 
with  a  fresh  bottle  of  champagne. 

"  Odd  scene  that  in  the  room  of  Tarleton's 
daughter!  Very  dramatic, — wish  I  knew 
what  it  all  meant.  However  my  *  nephew  ;' " 
a  rich  chuckle  resounded  from  the  depths  of 
his  chest — "'my  nephew'  awaits  me,  and 
after  another  bottle  in  the  Scarlet  Chamber, 
I  must  see  he^-  safely  home.  It  is  not  such 
a  bad  world  after  all." 

Thus  soliloquizing  he  arrived  at  the  end 
of  the  passage,  and  his  head  was  laid  against 
the  door  of  the  Scarlet  Chamber. 

"  Cozy  place, — bottle  of  wine, — good  com- 
pany— " 

"  Hush  !"  whispered  a  voice. 

"  That  you  J ulia  ?  What  are  you  doing 
out  here  in  the  dark  ?"  he  wound  his  arms 
about  his  nephew's  waist.     "  Waiting  for 


me 


"Do  not, — do  not,"  she  gasped,  struggling 
to  free  herself  from  his  arms, — "Do  not 
enter, — " 

"Tush,  child!  you're  nervous, — "  and 
despite  the  struggles,  he  gathered  his  arm 
closer  around  her  waist,  pushed  open  the 
door  and  entered  the  Scarlet  Room. 

A  quiet  little  apartment,  lighted  by  a 
hanging  lamp,  whose  mild  beams  softened 
the  glare  of  the  rich  scarlet  hangings. 
There  was  a  sofa  covered  with  red  velvet,  a 
table,  on  which  stood  a  bottle,  with  two 
long  necked  glasses,  and  from  an  interval  in 
the  hangings,  gleamed  the  vision  of  a  snow- 
white  couch.  Altogether,  a  place  worthy 
the  private  devotions  of  Leo  the  Tenth,  or 
of  any  gentleman  of  his  exquisite  taste,  and 
eccentric  piety," 

"  What's  the  matter  child  ?  You're  pale, 
and  have  been  crying, — "  exclaimed  Bulgin, 
as  he  bore  her  over  the  threshold,  and 
paused  for  a  moment  to  gaze  upon  her  face, 
Avhich  was  bare  to  the  light,  the  cap  having' 
fallen  from  her  brow.  As  he  spoke  his 
back  was  to  the  sofa, 

"  There,"  was  the  only  word  which  she 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


171 


had  power  to  frame,  and  bursting  hito  tears, 
she  pointed  over  his  shoulders  to  the  sofa. 

Somewhat  surprised,  Dr.  Bulgin  turned  on 
his  heel,  the  white  plumes  nodding  over 
his  hulky  face,  and,  

There  are  some  scenes  which  must  be  left 
to  the  imagination. 

On  the  sofa,  sat  three  grave  gentlemen, 
clad  in  solemn  black,  their  severe  features, 
rendered  even  more  stern  and  formal,  by  the 
relief  of  a  white  cravat.  Each  of  these 
gentlemen  held  his  hat  in  one  hand,  and  in 
the  other  a  cane,  surmounted  by  a  head  of 
white  bone. 

As  Bulgin  turned,  the  three  gentlemen 
quietly  rose,  and  said  politely,  with  one 
Toice : 

"  Good  morning  Dr.  Bulgin." 
.   And  then  as  quietly  sat  down  again. 

The  Doctor  looked  as  though  he  had  been 
lost  in  a  railroad  collision.  He  was  para- 
lyzed. He  had  not  even  the  presence  of  mind, 
to  release  the  grasp  which  gathered  the 
young  form  of  his  lovely  nephew  to  his 
side. 

The  exact  position  of  affairs,  at  this  crisis, 
will  be  better  understood,  when  you  are  in- 
formed, that  in  these  three  gentlemen,  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Bulgin  recognized  Mr.  Watkins,  Mr. 
Potts,  and  Mr.  Burns,  the  leading  members, 
perchance  Deacons  of  his  wealthy  congrega- 
tion. The  one  with  the  slight  form,  and 
short  stiff  gray,  hair, — Watkins.  Mr.  Potts, 
is  a  small  man,  with  a  bald  head,  and  the 
slightest  tendency  in  the  world  to  corpu- 
lence. Mr.  Burns  is  tall  and  lean,  with  an- 
gular features,  and  an  immense  nose.  Alto- 
gether, as  grave  and  respectable  men  as  you 
will  meet  in  a  days  walk,  from  Wall  Street, 
to  the  head  of  Broadway.  But  what  do 
they  in  the  Temple,  at  any  time,  but  espe- 
cially at  this  unusual  hour  ? 

That  was  precisely  the  question  which 
troubled  Bulgin. 

"W-e-1-1  Gentle-m-e-n,"  he  said,  not 
exactly  knowing  what  else  to  say. 

To  which  they  all  responded  with  a  sin- 
gular unanimity, — "W-e-1-1  D-o-c-t-o-r  !" 

"  Did  not  I,— did  not  I,— tell,— tell  you 
not  to  come  in  here  ?"  sobbed  the  nephew, — 
that  is  J ulia. 

Mr.  Watkins  arose  and  passed  his  hand 
through  his  stiff  gray  hair, — 


"Allow  me  to  compliment  you  upon  the 
becoming  character  of  your  costume  1"  and 
sat  down  again. 

Then  Mr.  Potts,  whose  bald  head  shone 
in  the  light  as  he  rose, — 

"And  allow  me  to  congratulate  you  upon 
the  character  of  this  house,  and  especially 
the  elegant  seclusion  of  this  chamber."  And 
Mr.  Potts  sat  down. 

Mr.  Burns'  lean  form  next  ascended,  and 
his  nose  seemed  to  increase  in  size,  as  he 
projected  it  in  a  low  bow, — 

"And  allow  me, — "  what  a  deep  voice  ! 
"  to  congratulate  you  upon  the  society  of  your 
companion,  who  becomes  her  male  attire 
exceedingly."  And  Mr.  Burns  gravely  re- 
sumed his  seat. 

"Did — I — not— tell,  tell — you, — n-o-t  to 
come  in,"  sobbed  Julia. 

The  Doctor's  face  was  partly  hidden  by 
his  plumes,  but  that  portion  of  it  which  waa 
visible,  resembled  nothing  so  much  in  color, 
as  a  boiled  lobster. 

It  now  occurred  to  the  Doctor,  to  release 
his  grasp  upon  the  waist  of  J  ulia.  He  left 
her  to  herself,  and  she  fell  on  her  knees, 
burying  her  face  in  her  hands.  As  for  the 
Doctor  himself,  he  slid  slowly  into  a  chair, 
never  once  removing  his  gaze,  from  the  three 
gentlemen  on  the  sofa.  Thus  confronting 
them  in  his  cardinal's  attire,  with  the  white 
plumes  nodding  over  his  forehead,  beseemed, 
in  the  language  of  the  chairman  of  a  town 
meeting,  "to  be  waiting  for  this  here  meeting 
to  proceed  to  business." 

There  was  a  pause, — a  painful  and  em- 
barrassing pause. 

The  three  sat  like  statues,  only  that  Mr. 
Potts  rubbed  the  end  of  his  nose,  with  the 
top  of  his  cane. 

Why  could  not  Dr.  Bulgin,  after  the 
manner  of  the  Genii  in  the  Arabian  Nights, 
disappear  through  the  floor,  in  a  cloud  of 
mist  and  puff  of  perfume  ? 

"Well, — gentlemen,  —  "  said  Bulgin  at 
last,  for  the  dead  silence  began  to  drive  him 
mad,  and  made  him  hear  all  sorts  of  noises, 
in  his  ears, — "what  are  you  doing  in  this 
place,  at  this  unusual  hour  !" 

This  was  a  pointed  question,  to  which 
Mr.  Bums  felt  called  upon  to  reply.  He 
rose,  and  again  the  nose  loomed  largely,  as 
he  bowed, — 


172 


IN  THE  TEMPLE. 


"Precisely  the  question  whicli  we  were 
about  to  ask  you,"  he  said,  and  was  seated 
again. 

Mr.  Potts  took  his  turn  : 

"  For  a  long  time  we  have  heard  rumors," 
he  said  rising,  "  rumors  concerning  our  pas- 
tor, of  a  painful  nature.  And  although  we 
did  not  credit  them,  yet  they  troubled  us. 
Last  night,  however,  we  each  received  a 
letter,  from  an  unknown  person,  who  in- 
formed us,  that  in  case  we  visited  this  house, 
between  midnight  and  daybreak,  we  would 
discover  our  pastor,  in  company  with  the 
wife  of  an  aged  member  of  our  church.  As 
the  letter  inclosed  the  password,  by  which 
admittance  is  gained  to  this  place,  Ave  took 
counsel  upon  the  matter,  and  concluded  to 
some.    And, — " 

"And,  —  "  interrupted  Watkins,  rising 
solemnly,  and  extending  the  forefinger  of  his 
right  hand,  toward  Bulgin,  "  and  iww  we  see!*' 

"And  now  we  see  echoed  Mr.  Watkins, 
absently  shutting  one  eye,  as  he  regarded 
Bulgin's  face. 

"  We  all  see,"  remarked  Mr.  Potts  resum- 
ing his  seat,  and  then  as  if  to  clinch  the 
matter — "  and  with  our  own  eyes  !" 

Bulgin  never  before  fully  appreciated  the 
meaning  of  the  word  "embarrassed."  His 
wits  had  never  failed  him  before;  would 
they  fail  him  now  ?    He  made  an  effort — 

"  Why,  gentlemen,  the  truth  is,  I  was  sum- 
moned to  this  house,  on  professional  duty, — " 
he  began. 

"  Mr.  Potts  groaned  ;  they  all  groaned. 
"  In  that  costume  ?  asked  Potts. 
"And  with  madam  there?"  asked  Wat- 
kins. 

"  Pro-fessi-o-n-a-1  d-u-t-y!"  thus  Watkins 
in  a  hollow  voice. 

*  Professional  duty  '  would  not  do  ;  evi- 
dently not.  Foiled  on  this  tack,  the  good 
Doctor  tried  another  : 

"  The  truth  is,"  he  began,  with  remarkable 
composure,  —  "I  had  been  informed  that 
Mrs.  Parkins  here, — "  he  pointed  to  the 
sobbing  "nephew"  otherwise  Julia,  and 
drew  his  chair  nearer  to  the  three,  gradually 
softening  his  voice  into  a  confidential  whis- 
per,— "  Mrs.  Parkins,  the  young  wife  of  my 
aged  friend  Parkins,  had  been  so  far  led 
away  by  the  insinuating  manners  of  a  young 
man  of  fashion,  as  to  promise  to  meet  him 


in  this  improper  place.  Desirous  to  save  th( 
wife  of  my  aged  friend  at  all  hazards,  I  as 
sumed  this  dress, — the  one  which  her  sedu- 
cer was  to  wear, — and  came  to  this  place 
and, — rescued  her.    Do  you  understand  ?" 

That  "do  you  understand,"  was  given  ir 
one  of  his  most  insinuating  whispers  ;  "  anc 
thus  you  see  I  periled  my  reputation  ir 
order  to  save, — her .'" 

What  effect  this  story  would  have  had 
upon  the  three,  had  it  been  suffered  to  travd 
unquestioned,  i*-,  is  impossible  to  tell.  But 
low  and  softly  as  the  Doctor  whispered,  111 
Avas  overheard  by  his  "nephew,"  otherwise, 
J  ulia. 

"  Don't  lie.  Doctor,"  she  said  quite  tartly  aa 
she  knelt  on  the  floor.  "I  was  not  led  away, 
by  any  young  man  of  fashion,  and  I  did  not 
come  here  to  meet  any  young  man  of  fashion. 
I  was  led  away  by  you,  and  I  came  here 
with  ]fou." 

Thus  speaking,  Julia  rose  from  her  knees, 
and  came  to  the  Doctor's  side,  thus  present- 
ing to  the  sight  of  the  three  gentlemen,  the 
figure  of  a  very  handsome  woman,  dressed , 
in  blue  frock  coat  and  trowsers.  She  was 
somewhat  tall,  luxuriously  proportioned, 
with  a  fine  bust  and  faultless  arms,  her  hair, 
chestnut  brown,  and  her  complexion  a  deli- 
cate mingling  of  "  strawberries  and  cream." 
"A  dem  foine  woman,  the  exquisite  of 
Broadway  would  have  called  her.  There 
was  not  so  much  of  intellect  in  her  face,  as 
there  was  health,  youth,  passion.  Mar- 
ried to  a  man  of  her  own  age,  and  whom  she  , 
loved,  she  doubtless  would  have  risen  above 
temptation,  and  always  proved  a  faithful 
wife,  an  affectionate  mother.  But  sold  by 
her  parents,  in  the  mockery  of  a  marriage,  to 
a  man  old  enough  to  be  her  father, — per- 
chance her  grandfather, — transferred  at  the 
age  of  seventeen,  like  a  bale  of  merchandise, 
to  the  possession  of  one  Avhom  she  could  not 
revere  as  a  father,  or  love  as  a  husband, — 
we  behold  her  before  us,  the  victim  of  the 
reverend  tempter. 

"You  know.  Doctor,  that  you  ied  me 
away,  you  know  you  did,"  she  cried,  J6b- 
bing,  "now  did  you  not?"  She  bent 
down  her  head  and  looked  into  his  face. 
"You  can't  say  you  didn't.  No  more  he 
can't,"  and  she  turned  in  mute  appeal  to  the 
three  gentlemeru 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


178 


"Evidently  not,''  exclaimed  Mr.  Potts, 
who  in  his  younger  daj's  had  been  somewhat 
wild,  "that  cock  Avon't  fight !"  he  continued 
using  a  figure  of  speech,  derived  from  the 
experience  of  said  younger  days. 

As  for  the  Doctor,  he  mentally  wished 
tite  beautiful  Mrs.  Julia  Parkins  in  Kams- 
cbatka. 

"Never  have  an  affair  with  a  fool  again, 
as  long  2S  I  live  !"  he  muttered. 

"And  while  you  soothed  my  poor  old 
husband,  on  that  doctrinal  point;  you, — you," 
sobbed  Julia,  "  told  me  how  handsome  I  was, 
and  what  a  shame  it  was  for  me,  to  be  jailed 
cp  with  an  old  man  like  that.  Yes,  you 
said  jailed.  And  how  it  was  no  harm  for 
me  to  love  you,  and  that  it  was  no  harm  for 
you  to  love  me.  And  I  heard  you  preach,  and 
you  came  to  the  house,  day  after  day,  and, — " 
poor  Julia  could  not  go  on  for  sobbing. 

The  three  gentlemen  groaned. 

As  for  Dr.  Bulgin,  he  calmly  rose  from  his 
seat,  and  taking  the  corkscrew  from  the  tray 
on  the  table,  proceeded  quietly  to  draw  the 
cork  of  a  bottle  of  champagi]^.  This  accom- 
plished, he  filled  a  long  necked  glass  to  the 
brim  wJfth  foaming  Heidsick. 

"Jig's  up,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  bowing  to 
tb6  three,  as  he  tossed  oflf  the  glass,  and  re- 
garded them  with  a  smile  of  matchless  im- 
pudence,— "Jig's  up !" 

■•^What  does  he  mean  by  'jig's  up 
asked  Mr.  Burns  of  Mr.  Potts,  in  a  very 
hollow  voice. 

"He  means,"  returned  Bulgin  himself, 
straightening  up,  and  rubbing  his  broad  chest 
with  his  fat  hand,  "  that  the  jig  is  up. 
You've  found  me  out.  There's  no  use  of 
lying  about  it.  And  now  that  you  have 
found  me  out, — "  he  paused,  filled  another 
glass,  and  contemplated  the  three,  over  its 
brim, — "  allow  me  to  ask,  what  do  you  intend 
to  do  ?" 

He  took  a  sip  from  the  glass.  The  three 
were  thunderstruck. 

"  Cool !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Potts,  punching 
the  toe  of  his  boot  with  his  cane. 

"  You  cant  expose  me,"  continued  Bulgin, 
as  he  took  another  sip  :  "  that  would  create 
scandal,  you  know,  and  hurt  the  church  more 
than  it  would  me." 

The  rich  impudence  of  the  Doctor's  look, 
would  "  have  made  a  cat  lausrh." 


9'  » 


"We  will  expose  you!"  cried  Watkins, 
hollowly,  with  an  emphatic  nodding  of  his 
nose.  "  The  truth  demands  it.  As  long  as 
you  are  suffered  to  prowl  about  in  this  way, 
no  man's  wife,  sister,  or  daughter  is  safe." 

"No  man's  wife,  sister,  or  daughter  is 
safe  !"  echoed  Mr.  Potts. 

"  Did  I  ever  tempt  7jour  wife.  Burns  ?" 
coolly  asked  Bulgin, — Burns  winced,  for  his 
wife  was  remarkably  plain. 

"  Or  your  sister,  Potts  ?"  Potts  colored  to 
the  eyes ;  his  sister  was  a  miracle  of  plain- 
ness. 

"  Or  your  daughter,  Watkins  ?"  Watkins 
felt  the  thrust,  for  his  daughter  was  as  plain 
as  Burns'  wife  and  Potts'  sister  combined. 

"  Be  assured  I  never  will,"  continued 
Bulgin — "  now,  what  do  you  intend  to  do  ? 
Expose  me  and  ruin  this  poor  creature  here?" 
"  Don't  call  me  a  poor  creature,  you  brute  !" 
indignantly  interrupted  Julia.  "  Publish  me 
in  the  papers,  dismiss  me  from  the  church,  give 
my  name  to  be  a  by- word  in  the  mouths  of 
scoffers  and  infidels  ?  Gravely,  gentlemen, 
is  that  what  you  mean  to  do  ?  Let  us  reflect 
a  little.  You  pay  me  a  good  salary;  I  preacl^ 
you  good  sermons.  Granted.  My  practice 
may  be  a  little  loose,  but,  is  not  my  doctrine 
orthodox  ?  Where  can  you  get  a  preache? 
who  will  draw  larger  crowds  ?  And  is  it 
worth  your  while,  merely  on  account  of  a 
little  weakness  like  this," — he  pointed  to 
J ulia, — "  to  disgrace  me  and  the  church 
together  ?" 

The  Doctor  saw  by  their  faces,  that  he 
had  made  an  impression.  They  conversed 
together  in  low  tones,  and  with  much  earn- 
estness. Meanwhile,  J  ulia  sobbed  and  Bul- 
gin took  another  glass  of  champagne. 

"Will  you  solemnly  promise," — Bums 
knocked  his  cane  on  the  floor,  and  emphasis- 
ed each  word,  "  to  be  more  careful  of  your 
conduct  in  the  future,  in  case  we  overlook 
the  present  offense  ?" 

"  Cordially,  gentlemen,  and  upon  my 
honor !"  cried  Bulgin,  rising  from  his  seat, 
"I  will  take  Julia  quietly  home,  and  to- 
morrow commence  life  anew.  I  give  you 
my  hand  upon  it." 

He  advanced,  ^nd  shook  them  by  the 
hand. 

"  If  you  keep  your  word,  this  will  SBit 
me,"  said  Bums,  wdth  gloomy  cordiality. 


174 


IN  THE  TEMPLE. 


"And  me,"  echoed  Watkins. 

/"And  me,"  responded  Potts. 
"  But  it  will  not  suit  me  !"  cried  a  strange 
voice,  which  started  the  whole  company  to 
their  feet.  The  voice  came  from  behind  the 
hangings  which  concealed  the  bed.  It  was 
a  firm  voice,  and  deep  as  a  well. 

"  It  will  not  suit  me,  I  say,"  and  from  the 
hangings  the  unknown  speaker  emerged  with 
a  measured  stride. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  somewhat  bent  in  the 
shoulders,  and  wore  a  long  cloak,  of  an  an- 
tique fashion,  which  was  fastened  to  his  neck 
by  a  golden  clasp.  His  white  hairs  were 
covered  by  an  old-fashioned  fur-cap ;  his 
eyes  hidden  by  large  green  glasses,  and  the 
furred  collar  of  his  cloak,  concealed  the 
lower  part  of  his  face.  An  aged  man,  evi- 
dently, as  might  be  seen  by  his  snow-white 
hair,  and  the  wrinkles  on  the  exposed  por- 
tion of  his  face,  but  his  step  was  strong  and 
measured,  and  his  voice  firm  and  clear. 

"And  who  are  youV^  cried  Bulgin, 
recovering  from  his  surprise.  His  remark 
was  chorused  by  the  others. 

"A  pew-holder  in  your  church,"  emphati- 
cally exclaimed  the  cloaked  individual. 
"  Let  that  suffice  you.  "  Gentlemen," — turn- 
mg  his  back  on  Bulgin,  he  lifted  his  cap  and 
exposed  his  forehead  to  the  three  gentle- 
men,— "  you  know  me  ?" 

With  one  impulse,  they  pronounced  a 
name ;  and  it  was  plainly  to  be  seen  that 
they  respected  that  name,  and  its  owner. 

"  This  compromise  does  not  suit  me,"  said 
the  cloaked  gentleman,  turning  abruptly  to 
Bulgin.  "  You  are  a  villain,  sir.  It  is  men 
like  you  who  bring  the  Gospel  of  Christ  into 
contempt.  You  are  an  atheist,  sir.  It  is 
men  like  you  who  fill  the  world  with  infi- 
dels. I  have  borne  with  you  long  enough. 
I  will  bear  with  you  no  longer.  You  shall 
be  exposed,  sir." 

This  style  of  attack,  as  impetuous  as  a 
charge  of  bayonets,  evidently  startled  the 
good  Doctor. 

"  Who  are  you  f "  he  asked,  sneeringly. 

"  I  am  the  man  who  wrote  the  letters  to 
these  three  gentlemen,  yesterday,"  dryly 
responded  the  cloaked  gentleman. 

"  This  is  a  conspiracy,"  growled  Bulgin. 
"  Take  care,  sir  !  There  is  a  law  for  con- 
Bpirators  against  character  and  reputation — " 


"  Baugh  !"  responded  the  old  gentleman, 
shrugging  his  shoulders  ;  and  then  he  beck- 
oned with  his  hand,  toward  the  recess  in 
which  stood  the  bed.  "  Come  in,"  ho  said, 
"it  is  time." 

Two  persons  emerged  from  the  recess ; 
one,  an  old  man,  of  portly  form,  and  mild, 
good-humored  face — now,  alas !  dark  and 
coiTugated  with  suppressed  wrath  ;  the  other, 
a  slender  woman,  with  pale  face,  and  large, 
intellectual  eyes, — and  a  baby,  sleeping  on 
her  bosom. 

Bulgin  uttered  an  oath. 

"  My  wife  ! — her  father  !"  was  all  he  could 
utter. 

*'  I  have  summoned  you  from  your  home 
in  the  country,"  said  the  cloaked  gentleman, 
"  to  meet  me  at  this  house  at  this  unusual 
hour,  to  show  you  the  husband  and  son-in- 
law  in  his  festival  attire,  and  in  company 
with  his  paramour. — Look  at  him  !  Isn't  he 
beautiful  ?" 

The  wife  rushed  forward,  with  an  indig- 
nant glance — 

"  Let  me  see  the  woman  who  has  stolen 
my  husband's  afl^ctions,"  she  said. 

The  cloaked  gentleman  interpos^  be- 
tween her  and  Julia, — 

"  Softly,  my  good  lady  ;  this  poor  child 
must  not  be  disgraced;"  and,  turning  to 
Julia,  he  whispered  :  "  Hide  your  face  with 
your  'kerchief,  and  hurry  from  the  rooE^. 
There  is  a  carriage  at  the  door  ;  it  will  bear 
you  home.    Away  now  !" 

"  The  nephew"  did  not  need  a  second 
invitation.  Hands  over  her  face,  she  glided 
from  the  room. 

Bulgin  now  found  himself  in  this  posi- 
tion : —  behind  him,  Watkins,  Burns  and 
Potts  ;  on  his  right,  the  cloaked  gentleman  ; 
on  his  left,  his  weeping  wife,  with  her  baby; 
in  front,  the  burly  form  of  his  father-in-law, 
who,  clad  in  the  easy  costume  of  a  country 
gentleman,  seemed  too  full  of  wrath  to  trust 
himself  with  Avords. 

"  Oh  !  husband,  how  could  you — "  began 
the  wife. 

"  Is  that  your  wife,  sir  ?  "  thundered  the 
father-in-law.  "  Answer  me  !  Is  that  your 
wife  ?" 

*•  "It  is,"  answered  Bulgin,  retreating  a  step. 
"  Allow  me  to  explain, — " 

"  Is  that  your  child,  sir  ?"  thundered  tho 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


175 


enraged  old  gentleman.  "  Answer  me  !  Is 
that  your  child  ?" 

"It — is — "  and  Bulgin  retreated  another 
step. 

"  Then,  what  in  the  devil  do  you  do  in  a 
place  like  this  ? — Hey  ? — Answer  me  ! — an- 
swer me  ! — " 

The  father-in-law  was  too  much  enraged 
to  say  any  more.  So  he  proceeded  to  settle 
the  affair  in  his  own  way.  He  did  not 
threaten  "  divorce  — did  not  even  mention 
"separate  maintenance."  Nothing  of  the 
kind.  His  course  was  altogether  different. 
From  beneath  his  capacious  buff  waistcoat, 
he  drew  forth  a  cow-hide — a  veritable  cow- 
hide,— and  grasped  it  firmly. 

"Don't  strike  a  man  of  my  cloth,"  cried 
Bulgin, 

The  only  answer  was  a  blow  across  the 
face,  which  left  its  livid  mark  on  the  nose 
and  cheeks.  The  good  Doctor  bawled  and 
ran.  The  father-in-law  pursued,  giving  the 
cow-hide  free  play  over  the  head  and  shoul- 
ders of  the  Doctor.  And  the  wife,  with 
baby  on  her  bosom,  pursued  her  father, — 
"Don't,  father,  don't!"  Thus,  the  chase 
led  round  the  room  ;  the  howls  of  the  Doc- 
tor, the  blows  of  the  whip,  the  falling  of 
chairs,  and  trampling  of  feet,  forming,  alto- 
gether, a  striking  chorus.  And  to  add  the 
feather  to  the  camel's  back,  the  baby  lifted 
up  its  voice  in  the  midst  of  the  scene.  Mr. 
Potts,  Mr.  Burns,  and  Mr.  Watkins,  mounted 
on  the  sofa,  so  that  they  might  not  be  in  the 
way. 

As  for  the  cloaked  gentleman,  leaning 
against  the  door,  he  laughed, — yes,  perhaps 
for  the  first  time  in  thirty  years. 

After  making  the  circuit  of  the  room  three 
or  four  times,  the  scarlet  attire  of  the  Eev. 
Dr.  Bulgin  hung  in  rags  upon  his  back ;  and 
the  old  man,  red  in  the  face,  bathed  in  per- 
spiration, and  out  of  breath,  sank  panting  in 
a  chair. 

He  glanced  at  his  daughter,  who  sat  weep- 
ing in  a  corner,  and  then  at  the  Rev.  Doctor, 
who,  with  the  figure  of  the  letter  X  welted 
across  his  face,  was  rubbing  his  bruises  in 
another  corner. 

"Now,  sir,  if  ever  I  catch  you  at  anything 
of  this  kind,  if  I  don't  lick  you,  my  name 
B\nt  J  nkins !" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

BANK-STOCK  AT  THE  BAB. 

The  Court  of  Ten  Millions  was  once  more 
in  session.  The  judge  was  once  more  in  his 
seat ;  his  form  enveloped  in  the  coat  with 
many  capes,  his  features  shadowed  by  the 
hat  with  ample  brim.  But  the  beautiful 
Esther  was  no  longer  on  his  left,  nor  the 
giant  negro  on  his  right.  The  great  states- 
man, with  the  somber  brow  and  masquerade 
attire  of  Roderick  Borgia,  no  longer  sat  in 
the  seat  of  the  criminal.  The  scene  was 
altogether  changed,  although  the  candle  on 
the  table  still  shed  its  beams  around  that 
room,  whose  black  hangings  were  fringed 
with  gold,  and  whose  gloomy  ceiling  repre- 
sented a  stormy  sky,  with  the  sun  struggling 
among  its  clouds. 

In  the  seat  of  the  criminal  sat  Israel 
Yorke,  the  financier ;  his  diminutive  form, 
clad  in  the  scarlet  Turkish  jacket  and  blue 
trowsers,  contrasting  somewhat  oddly  with 
his  business-like  face,  and  with  the  general 
appearance  of.  the  scene.  Israel  was  per- 
plexed, for  he  shifted  uneasily  in  the  chair 
and  clasped  its  arms  with  his  hands,  while 
his  ferret-like  eyes,  now  peering  above,  now 
below,  but  never  through  the  glasses  of  his 
spectacles,  roved  incessantly  from  side  to 
side.  There  sat  the  silent  judge,  under  the 
gloomy  canopy,  his  head  bowed  on  his 
breast.  There  w^as  the  black  table,  on  which 
stood  the  solitary  candle,  and  over  which 
were  scattered,  an  inkstand,  pen  and  paper, 
a  book,  and  sundry  other  volumes,  looking 
very  much  like  ledger  and  day-book.  On 
one  side  of  the  table,  ranged  against  the 
wall,  were  six  sturdy  fellows,  attired  in 
coarse  garments,  with  crape  over  their  faces; 
and  each  man  held  a  club  in  his  brawny 
hand.  And  on  the  opposite  side,  also  ranged 
against  the  wall  like  statues,  were  six  more 
sturdy  fellows,  each  one  grasping  a  club  with 
his  strong  right  arm.  They  were  dumb  as 
stone  ;  only  their  hard  breathing  could  be 
heard  ; — evidently  men  of  toil,  who,  on  occa- 
sion, in  a  good  cause,  can  strike  a  blow  that 
will  be  felt. 

Israel  did  not  like  this  scene.  A  few 
moments  since,  kneeling  beside  a  beautiful 
girl,  whose  young  loveliness  was  helpless 
and  in  his  power ; — and  now,  a  prisoner  in 


176 


IN  THE  TEMPLE. 


this  nightmare  sort  of  place,  with  the  judge 
Defore  him,  and  six  sturdy  fellows  on  either 
hand,  waiting  to  do  the  judge's  bidding ! 
The  contrast  was  too  violent.  Israel  thought 
so ;  and — Israel  felt  anything  but  comfort- 
able. 

"Do  they  mean  to  murder  me  in  this  dis- 
mal den?"  he  ejaculated  to  himself.  "  Really, 
this  way  of  doing  business  is  exceedingly 
unbusiness-like.  What  would  they  say  in 
Wall  street  to  a  scene  like  this  ?" 

Here  the  voice  of  the  judge  was  heard 
through  the  dead  stillness  : 

"  Israel  Yorke,  you  are  about  to  be  put  on 
trial  for  your  crimes." 

"My  crimes  ?"  ejaculated  the  little  man, 
bounding  from  his  seat.  "  Crimes  ! — What 
crimes  have  I  committed  ?" 

There,  outspoke  the  sense  of  injured  inno- 
cence !  To  be  sure — what  crimes  had  he 
committed  ?  Had  he  ever  stabbed  a  man,  or 
put  another  man's  name  to  paper,  or  stolen  a 
loaf  of  bread?  No,  —  indignantly  —  No! 
Israel  Yorke  was  above  all  that.  But  how 
many  robbers  had  he  made,  in  the  course  of 
his  career,  by  his  banking  speculations?  how 
many  forgers?  how  many  murderers?  how 
many  honest  men  had  he  flung  into  the 
felon's  cell?  how  many  pure  women  had  he 
transformed  into  walkers  of  the  public 
streets  ?  Ah !  these  are  questions  which 
Israel  Yorke  had  rather  not  answer. 

"Yes,  your  crimes,  committed  through  a 
long  course  of  years  ;  not  with  the  bravery 
and  boldness  of  the  highway  robber,  but 
with  the  cowardice  and  low  cunning  of  the 
sneak  and  swindler,  who  robs  within  the 
letter  of  the  law.  Crimes  committed,  not 
upon  the  wealthy  and  the  strong,  but  upon 
the  weak,  the  poor,  the  helpless — the  widow, 
by  her  fireless  hearth — the  orphan,  by  his 
father's  grave.  Oh,  sir — we  have  just  tried 
a  bold,  bad  man ;  a  colossal  criminal,  whose 
very  errors  wear  something  of  the  gloomy 
grandeur  of  the  thunder-cloud.  To  put  you 
on  trial,  after  him,  is  like  leaving  the 
presence  of  Satan,  his  forehead  yet  bearing 
some  traces  of  former  splendor,  to  find  ones- 
self  confronted  by  Mammon,  that  most 
abased  of  all  the  damned.  Yes,  sir, — an 
apology  is  due  to  human  nature,  by  this 
court,  for  st  coping  so  low  as  to  put  you  on 
your  trial.    And  yet,  even  you  derive  some 


sort  of  consequence  from  the  vast  field  of 
your  crimes, — the  wide-spread  and  infernal 
results  of  your  life-long  labors." 

Israel  crouched  in  his  chair,  as  though  he 
expected  the  ceiling  to  fall  on  him.  "What 
d'ye  mean  by  crimes  ? "  he  cried,  grasping 
the  arms  of  the  chair  with  both  hands ; — 
"  and  what  right  have  you  to  try  me  ?" 

The  judge  briefly  but  pointedly,  and  in  a 
clear  voice,  which  penetrated  every  nook  of 
the  chamber,  explained  the  peculiar  features 
of  the  court.  Its  power,  backed  by  ten  mil- 
lions of  silver  dollars  ;  its  jurisdiction,  over 
crimes  committed  by  those  who  seek  the 
fruits  of  labor,  without  its  work,  or  who  use 
the  accident  of  wealth  and  social  position  to 
oppress  or  degrade  man — their  brother ;  its 
stern  application  to  criminals,  who,  clad  iU 
wealth,  had  trampled  all  justice  under  foot 
of  their  own  terse  motto,  "Might  makes 

RIGHT." 

The  explanation  of  the  judge  was  brief, 
but  impressive.  Israel  began  to  feel  convic- 
tion steal  into  his  soul.  "  Might  makes  right !" 
Oh,  how  like  the  last  nail  in  the  coffin, 
are  those  simple  words,  to  a  wealthy  scoun- 
drel, who  suddenly  finds  himself  helpless  in 
the  grasp  of  a  mightier  power  ! 

"  Of  —  what — am — I — accusf^d  !"  faltered 
Israel ;  thus  recognising  the  jurisdiction  of 
the  court. 

The  judge  answered  him  : 

"  Of  every  crime  that  can  be  committed 
by  the  man,  who  makes  it  his  sole  object  in 
life  to  coin  money  out  of  the  life  and  blood 
of  the  helpless  and  the  poor ; — and  who 
pursues  this  object  steadily,  by  day  and 
night,  for  twenty  years,  with  the  untiring 
scent  of  the  bloodhound  on  the  track  of 
blood.  Survey  your  life  for  the  last  twenty 
years.  You  have  appeared  in  various  char* 
acters  :  as  the  trustee,  as  the  executor,  as  the 
speculator,  the  landlord,  and  the  financier. 

He  paused.  Israel  found  himself  listen- 
ing with  intense  interest. 

"  As  the  trustee,  to  whom  dying  men,  with 
their  last  breath,  intrusted  the  heritage  of 
the  orphan,  you  have  in  every  case,  plun- 
dered the  orphan  out  of  bread,  out  of  edu- 
cation, and  cast  him  ignorant  and  helpless 
upon  the  world.  How  many  orphans,  given 
into  your  charge,  with  their  heritage,  now 
rot  in  the  grave,  or  in  the  felon's  dungeon  ? 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


177 


Your  history  is  written  in  their  blood.  Do 
you, — "  the  voice  of  the  judge  sank  low, — 
"  do  you  remember  one  orphan,  whom,  when 
a  little  child,  her  father  gave  to  your  care, 
and  whom,  when  grown  to  young  woman- 
hood, you  robbed  of  her  heritage  ?  Do  you 
remember  the  day  on  which  she  died,  the 
tenant  of  a  brothel  ?  " 

Once  more  the  judge  was  silent,  but  Israel 
had  no  word  of  reply.  As  for  the  twelve 
listeners,  they  manifested  their  attention  by 
BJi  ominous  murmur. 

"As  the  landlord,  it  has  not  been  your 
object  to  provide  the  poor  with  comfortable 
homes,  in  exchange  for  their  hard-earned 
rent-money,  but  to  pack  as  many  human  be- 
ings as  you  might,  within  the  smallest  com- 
pass of  brick  and  mortar, — to  herd  creatures 
made  in  the  image  of  the  living  God,  in  nar- 
row rooms,  dark  courts;  and  pestilential  al- 
leys, as  never  beasts  were  herded, — and  thus 
you  have  sowed  death,  you  have  bred  the 
fever,  the  small-pox,  the  cholera, — but  you 
have  made  money.''^ 

Seated  in  the  shadow  of  the  velvet  canopy, 
from  which  his  voice  resounded,  the  judge 
again  was  silent.  Israel,  dropping  his  eyes, 
imitated  the  silence  of  the  judge.  The 
murmur  of  the  twelve  listeners  was  now 
accompanied  by  the  sound  of  their  clubs 
grating  against  the  floor. 

"  It  is  as  a  banker,  however,  that  your  ap- 
petite for  money,  made  out  of  human  blood, 
takes  its  intensest  form  of  baseness.  You 
started  with  a  Savings  Fund,  chartered  by 
a  well-paid  legislature,  who  transformed  you 
into  a  president  and  board  of  directors,  and 
divesting  you  of  all  responsibility,  as  a  man, 
authorized  you  to  coin  money  out  of  the 
blind  confidence  of  the  poor.  Hard-work- 
ing men,  servant-girls,  needle-women,  and 
others  of  the  poor,  who  gain  their  pittance 
by  labor  that  never  knows  rest,  until  it  sleeps 
in  the  grave,  deposited  that  pittance  in  your 
hands.  A  pittance,  mark  you,  not  so  re- 
markable for  its  amount,  as  for  the  fact,  that 
it  might,  in  some  future  hovn*,  become  bread 
to  the  starving,  warmth  to  the  freezing,  home 
to  the  homeless.  And  how  did  you  deal 
with  the  sacred  trust  ?  The  earnings  of  the 
poor  filled  the  cofters  of  your  Savings  Fund, 
until  they  counted  over  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars,  anl  then,  on  the  eve  Df  a  dreary 


winter,  the  Savings  Fund  failed.  That  wai< 
all.  You  did  not  fail;  oh,  no;  but  the  Sa^ 
vings  Fund  Corporation  (into  which  a  pliant 
legislature  had  transformed  you), — it  failed. 
And  while  you  pocketed  the  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars,  you  left  the  poor,  who  had 
trusted  you,  to  starve,  or  beg,  or  die,  as 
pleased  them." 

Israel  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hands ;  ha 
seemed  buried  in  profound  thought. 

"  This  was  the  corner-stone  of  your  for- 
tunes. Then  the  Savings  Fund  swindler 
grew  into  the  banker.  There  were  legisla- 
tures at  Albany,  at  Trenton  and  at  Harris- 
burgh,  eager  to  do  your  bidding, — hungry  to 
be  bought.  For  every  dollar  of  real  value 
in  your  coffers,  these  legislatures,  by  their 
charters,  gave  you  the  privilege  to  create  at 
least  fifty  paper  dollars  ;  in  other  words,  to 
demand  from  the  toiling  people  of  the  land, 
some  millions  of  dollars'  worth  of  their  labor, 
without  any  equivalent.  Your  banks  grew  ; 
there  were  sham  presidents  and  boards  of 
directors,  but  you  were  the  actual  owner  of 
them  all  ;  your  paper  was  scattered  broad- 
cast over  the  land.  It  was  in  the  hands  of 
farmers  and  mechanics,  of  poor  men  and 
poor  women,  who  had  taken  it  in  pay  for 
hard  labor  ;  and  all  at  once  your  banks  failed. 
What  became  of  the  poor  wretches  who  took 
your  paper,  is  not  known,  but  as  for  you, 
your  capital  of  a  hundred  thousand  now 
swelled  into  two  millions  of  dollars.  Let  the 
poor  howl !  Had  you  not  a  press  in  your 
pay  ?  Why  should  not  the  press  be  pur- 
chased, when  legislatures  are  to  be  bought  as 
so  much  merchandise  ?  " 

The  judge  paused,  and  after  a  moment 
resumed, — 

"  There  was  a  clamor  for  a  while,  but  you 
laughed  in  your  sleeve,  bought  houses  and 
lands, — dotted  the  city  with  pestilential  dens, 
'  in  which  you  crowded  the  poor,  like  insects 
j  in  a  festering  carcass, — and  after  a  time,  raised 
I  your  head  once  more  as  a  banker.  It  was 
j  Harrisburgh,  Albany  or  Trenton  this  time, — 
!  one  of  the  three,  or  all  of  them, — which 
gave  you  the  right  to  steal  by  law.  You 
i  were  now  the  owner  (and  behind  the  scenes, 
I  the  wire-puller),  of  three  banks.  Last  night 
'  you  thought  '  the  pear  ripe.'  Your  notes 
were  once  more  scattered  broadcast  over  the 
_  land.  '  It  is  a  good  time  to  fail,'  you  thought, 


178  IN  THE 

and  so  last  night,  in  the  railroad  cars  (in  order 
to  give  a  color  to  your  failure)  you  pretended 
to  be  robbed  of  seventy-one  thousand  dollars." 

*'  Pretended  to  be  robbed  ?  I  tell  you  I 
was  robbed,"  cried  Israel,  half-rising  from 
his  seat, — "  robbed  by  an  old  convict  and  his 
young  accomplice." 

"And  this  morning,  in  due  course,  your 
three  banks  stopped  payijient.  All  day  long 
your  victims  lined  the  street,  in  front  of  your 
den  of  plunder ;  and  to-night  found  you  in 
this  place,  seeking  for  a  time,  the  gratifica- 
tion of  one  lust  in  place  of  another.  And 
now  you  are  in  the  hands  of  those  who, 
having  '  the  might,'  will  do  with  you  as 
your  crimes  deserve.  'Might  makes  right,' 
you  know. " 

"But  where  is  the  proof  of  all  this?  Where 
are  my  accusers  ?  "  Israel's  teeth  chattered 
as  he  spoke. 

"  Do  you  ask  for  accusers  ?  What  accusers 
are  needed  more  powerful  than  those  voices 
which  now, — and  even  your  seared  conscience 
must  heai-  them, — arise  against  you  from  the 
silence  of  the  grave  and  the  darkness  of  the 
dungeon  cell  ?  " 

Israel  tried  hard  to  brace  his  nerves 
against  the  force  of  words  like  these, — 
against  the  tone  in  which  they  were  spoke, — 
but  he  shook  from  head  to  foot,  as  though  he 
had  been  seized  with  an  ague-fit. 

"  Think  for  a  moment  of  Cornelius  Ber- 
men,  whom,  by  the  grossest  fraud,  you  strip- 
ped of  property  and  home,  leaving  himself 
and  his  only  child  to  sink  heart-broken  into 
the  grave.  And  once  you  called  yourself 
his  friend.  Think,  also,  of  your  instrument. 
Buggies,  whose  persecution  of  the  artist,  in- 
stigated by  you,  provoked  a  brave  and  hon- 
est youth  into  murder,  and  consigned  him  to 
the  felon's  death  !  Do  you  ask  for  accusers  ?" 

"  Cornelius'  Bermen  !  "  faltered  Israel,  as 
if  thinking  aloud. 

"  Do  you  ask  for  proofs  ?  Behold  them 
on  the  table  before  you.  For  years  your  course 
has  been  tracked,  your  crimes  counted,  and 
the  hour  of  your  punishment  fixed.  And 
the  hour  has  come  !  On  the  table  before 
you  are  proofs  of  all  your  crimes,  proofs  that 
would  weigh  you  down  in  a  convict's  chains 
before  any  court  of  law.  There  are  the  se- 
crets which  you  thought  safely  locked  up  in 
your  fire-proof,  or  buried  in  the  forgotten 


TEMPLE. 

past, — secrets  connected  v^ith  the  history  of 
long  years,  with  your  transactions  in  Harris- 
burgh,  Trenton,  Albany,  —  with  all  your 
schemes  from  the  very  dawning  of  your  in- 
famous career." 

"  Can  Fetch,  the  villain,  have  betrayed 
me  ? "  and  Israel  sank  back  helplessly  in 
the  huge  arm-chair; — "or,  is  this  man  only 
trying  to  bully  me  into  some  confession  or 
other  ? "  .  . 

"  Israel  Yorke  !  the  devotion  with  which 
you,  for  long  years,  have  pursued  your  ob- 
ject,— to  coin  money  out  of  human  blood,— 
has  only  been  exceeded  by  the  devotion  of 
those  who  have  followed  you  at  every  step 
of  the  way,  and  for  3'ears,  singled  you  out  as 
the  victim  of  avenging  justice." 

"  But  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  me  ?" 
cried  Yorke,  now  shivering  from  head  to  foot 
with  terror. 

"  In  the  first  place,  you  will  sign  a  paper, 
stating  the  truth,  viz  :  that  you  have  ample 
means  to  redeem  every  dollar  of  your  notes, 
and  that  you  will  redeem  them  to-day,  and 
henceforth  at  your  office." 

"  But  I  have  not  the  funds,"  Israel  began, 
but  he  was  sternly  interrupted  by  the  judge  : 
"  It  is  false  !  you  have  the  funds.  Independ- 
ent of  the  seventy-one  thousand  dollars,  of 
which  you  say  you  were  robbed,  you  can,  at 
any  moment,  command  a  million  dollars. 
The  proofs  are  on  the  table  before  you.  You 
must  redeem  your  notes." 

"And  suppose  I  consent  to  sign  such  a 
paper?"  hesitated  the  Financier. 

"  Then  you  must  sign  another  paper,  the 
contents  of  which  you  will  not  know  until 
some  future  time,"  continued  the  judge,  very 
quietly. 

"  If  I  do  it,  may  I  be  ! "  screamed 

Israel,  bouncing  from  his  seat. 

"  It  is  well.  You  may  go,"  calmly  re- 
marked the  judge.  "  You  are  free  ;  these 
gentlemen  will  see  you  from,  this  house,  and 
attend  you  until  bank  hours,  when  they  will 
have  the  honor  of  presenting  you  to  the 
holders  of  your  notes,  who  will,  doubtless, 
gather  in  respectable  numbers  in  front  of 
your  banking  house." 

Israel  was  free,  but  the  twel  ve  gentlemen, 
with  clubs,  gathered  round  him,  anxious  to 
escort  him  safely  on  his  way. 

"  Come,  my  dear  little  Turk:,  we  are  ready," 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


179 


said  one  of  the  number,  with  a  very  gruff 
voice,  laying  a  hand, — it  was  such  a  hard 
hand, — on  the  shoulders  of  the  Financier, 
"We're  a-dyin'  to  go  with  you;  ain't  we, 
boys  ?" 

•*  Dyin'  ain't  the  word, — we're  starvin'  to 
death  to  be  alone  with  the  gentleman  in  blue 
trowsers,"  responded  another. 

Israel  bit  his  lips  in  silent  rage. 

"  Give  me  the  papers,"  he  said,  in  a  sullen 
voice,  and  following  a  sign  from  the  finger 
of  the  judge,  he  advanced  to  the  table,  and 
beheld  the  documents,  the  fii-st  of  which  he 
read. 

It  was  an  important  document,  containing 
a  brief  statement  of  all  Israel's  financial  af- 
fairs,— evidently  prepared  by  one  who  knew 
all  about  him, — together  with  his  solemn 
promise  to  redeem  every  one  of  his  notes, 
dollar  for  dollar. 

"  Could  Fetch  have  betrayed  me  ?  " — Is- 
rael hissed  the  words  between  his  set  teeth, 
as  he  took  up  the  pen. — "  If  I  thought  so, 
I'd  cut  his  throat." 

He  signed,  shook  his  gold  spectacles,  and 
uttered  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Now,  the  other  paper,"  said  the  judge, 
"  its  contents  are  concealed  by  another  sheet, 
but  there  is  room  for  jom  signature." 

Israel's  little  eyes  shone  wickedly  as  he 
gazed  upon  the  sheet  of  paper,  which  hid 
the  mysterious  document.  He  chewed  the 
handle  of  his  pen  between  his  teeth, — stood 
for  a  moment  in  great  perplexit}^,  and  then 
signed  at  the  bottom  of  the  sheet,  the  mu- 
sical name  of  "Israel  Yorke,"  and  then 
fell  back  in  the  chair  wiping  the  sweat  from 
his  forehead  with  the  sleeve  of  his  Turkish 
jacket. 

"Anything  more  ?"  he  gasped. 

"You  are  free,"  said  the  judge;  "you 
may  now  change  your  dress,  and  leave  this 
house." 

Israel  bounced  from  his  seat. 

"Yet,  hold  a  single  moment.  One  of  these 
gentlemen  will  accompany  you  wherever  you 
go;  eat,  drink,  walk,  sit,  sleep  with  you,  and 
be  introduced  by  you  to  all  your  financial 
friends,  as  your  moneyed  friend  from  the 
country,  " 

"  Why,  you  must  be  the  devil  incarnate," 
screamed  Israel,  and  he  beat  his  clenched 
hand  against  the  arm  of  the  chair. 


"  It  will  be  the  business  of  your  attendant 
to  accompany  you  to  your  banking  house, 
and  see  that  you  commence  the  redemption 
of  your  notes  at  nine  o'clock  this  morning. 
He  will  report  all  your  movements  to  me. 
Were  you  suffered  to  go  alone,  you  might,  in 
a  fit  of  absence,  glide  out  of  public  view, 
and, — Havana  is  such  a  pleasant  residence  for 
runaway  bankers,  especially  in  winter  time." 

Israel  gave  utterance  to  an  oath.  The 
judge,  without  remarking  this  pardonable 
ebullition  of  feeling,  quietly  addressed  his 
twelve, — 

"  Which  of  you  gentlemen  will  put  your- 
self under  this  gentleman's  orders,  as  his  at- 
tendant and  shadow  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause,  and  one  of  the  twelve 
advanced  and  laid  his  brawny  hand  upon 
the  table.  His  gaunt  and  muscular  form 
was  clad  in  a  sleek  frock-coat  of  dark  blue 
cloth,  buttoned  over  his  broad  chest  to  his 
throat,  where  it  was  relieved  by  a  black  cra- 
vat and  high  shirt  collar.  His  harsh  fea- 
tures, closely  shaven,  and  disfigured  by  a 
hideous  scar  on  his  cheek, — features  mani- 
festing traces  of  hardship  and  age, — were  in 
singular  contrast  with  his  hair,  Avhich,  sleek, 
and  brown  and  glossy,  was  parted  neatly  in 
the  middle  of  his  huge  head,  and  descended 
to  either  ear,  in  massy  curls.  His  eyes,  half 
hidden  by  the  shaggy  brows,  shone  with  an 
expression  only  to  be  described  by  the  words, 
ferocious  fun. 

"  I'll  go  with  him,  boss,"  said  a  gruff 
voice ;  and,  turning  to  Israel,  this  singular 
individual  regarded  him  with  a  steady  look, 
Israel  returned  his  look,  and  the  twain  gazed 
upon  each  other  with  increasing  interest ;  and 
at  length  the  individual  approached  Israel, 
and  bent  down  his  head  near  to  his  face. 

"  It's  the  fellow, — it's  the  follow  ! "  cried 
Israel,  once  more  bouncing  from  his  seat. 
"He  robbed  me  last  night  in  the  cars, — 
he  " 

"Be  silent,"  cried  the  judge,  who  had  re- 
garded this  scene  attentively,  M'ith  his  hand 
upraised  to  his  brow. — "  Gentlemen,  conduct 
the  prisoner  into  the  next  room,  and  leave 
me  alone  with  this  person,"  he  pointed  to  the 
gaunt  individual  who  stood  alone  by  the  table. 

The  eleven  disappeared  through  the  cur- 
tains into  the  Golden  Eoom  with  Israel  m 
their  charge. 


180  IN  THE 

"  Now  sir,  who  aro  you  ?"  sternly  in- 
quired the  judge. 

The  individual  gravely  lifted  his  brown 
hair, — for  it  was  a  wig, — and  disclosed  the 
outline  of  his  huge  head,  with  the  black 
hair  streaked  with  gray,  cut  close  to  the 
scalp.  Then  turning  down  the  high  shirt- 
collar,  he  disclosed  the  lower  part  of  his 
face, — the  wide  mouth  and  iron  jaw,  stamp- 
ed with  a  savage  resolution. 

"Don't  you  think  I'm  hansum  ?"  he  said, 
and  the  eyes  twinkled  imder  the  bushy 
brows,  and  the  mouth  distorted  in  a  grin. 

"  It's  the  same  !"  ejaculated  the  judge, — 
"How  did  you  escape  from  the  room  in 
v^^hich  you  were  confined  some  three  hours 
ago,  and  what  do  you  here  ?" 

"As  yer  so  civil  and  pleasant  spoken,  I 
don't  mind  answerin'  yer  questions.  Arter 
the  poleese  had  tied  me,  and  left  me  in  the 
dark  upon  the  bed,  *it  looks  black,'  said  I  to 
myself,  'but  don't  give  it  up  so  easy  !'  and  a 
side  door  was  opened,  an'  a  hand  cut  my  cords, 
and  a  voice  said  '  get  up  and  travel, — the 
way  is  clear,'  and  a  bundle  was  put  into  my 
hand,  containin'  these  clothes,  and  this  head 
o'  hair. — I  rigged  myself  out  in  the  dark, 
pitched  my  old  clothes  under  the  bed,  an' 
then  went  down  the  back  stairway.  I  cer- 
tainly did  travel — " 
"And  then  ?— " 

"And  then,"  responded  the  individual,  "  I 
went  and  got  shaved," 

"  How  came  you  here  ?" 

"  Thinking,  I  was  safer  in  a  crowd,  than 
anywhere  else,  I  put  for  down  town,  and  I 
mixed  in  with  the  folks  in  front  of  Israel 
Yorke's  banking-house,  and  as  they  were 
hollering,  why  I  hollered  too.  They  wanted 
to  pitch  into  him,—  so  did  I.  Lord  !  didn't 
they  holler !  And  a  gen'elman,  seein'  I  was 
so  airnest,  told  me  about  a  private  party,  who  i 
were  about  to  foller  up  Isr'el,  to  this  house. 
One  0'  their  gang,  he  said,  was  sick,  —  he 
axed  me  to  jine  'em, — and  swore  me  in  as 
one  of  your  perleese, — and  I  jined  'em." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  cried  the  judge, 
sternly. 

"  In  the  place  where  I  was  last,  they  called 
me  Ninety-One,"  answered  the  old  convict, 
arranging  the  high  collar  about  his  face, —  | 
"  Years  ago,  when  I  was  an  honest  ^man, ' 
afore  a  man  in  a  cloak,  qn  a  dark  night,  j 


TEMPLE. 

left  a  baby  with  me  and  my  wife,  I  was 

called,  " 

He  paused,  and  passed  his  brawny  hand 
over  his^eyes.  The  judge  started  up  from 
his  seat. — 

"Yes,  yes,  you  were  called, — "  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"  John  Hofi'man,"  replied  the  convict. 

The  judge  sank  back  in  his  chair,  and 
his  head  dropped  upon  his  breast.  It  was 
sometime  before  he  spoke, — 

"  I  have  heard  of  your  story  before,"  he 
said,  in  a  tremulous  voice.  "And  now  an- 
swer me  one  question,"  he  continued  in  a 
firmer  voice. — "Did  you  commit  the  mur- 
der for  which  you  were  arrested  ?" 

"I  can't  expect  you  to  believe  an  old  cuss 
like  me,  but  I  certainly  did  ?2o^,"  responded 
Ninety-One. 

"  How  came  you  in  the  room  next  to  the 
one  in  Avhich  the  murdered  man  was  found?" 

"  I  was  took  there  by  a  frieml,  who  ofi"ered 
to  hide  me  from  the  folks  who  were  arter 
me,  about  Israel's  valise." 

The  judge  seemed  buried  in  thought. 

"And  after  the  murder  was  discovered, 
and  you  were  arrested  and  pinioned,  the 
same  friend  appeared  once  more,  and  aided 
your  escape  ?" 

"  It  was  a  friend,"  dryly  responded  Ninety- 
One, — "can't  say  what  he  looked  like,  as 
the  room  was  as  black  as  your  hat,  (purviden 
you  don't  wear  a  white  hat"). 

"Did  you  commit  the  robbery  on  the 
railroad  cars,  last  night  ?" 

"  I'll  be  straight  up  and  down  with  you, 
boss,"  said  Ninety-One, — "I  did  not, — and 
nobody  didn't.  The  money  was  found  on 
the  track,  after  the  smashin'  up  o'  the  cars.'* 

"  Do  you  imagine  the  friend,  who  hid  you 
away  in  the  house  of  old  Mr.  Somers,  in- 
tended to  implicate  you  in  the  murder  of 
his  son  ?" 

"  That's  jist  one  o'  th'  p'ints  I'd  like  to 
settle;"  Ninety-One  uttered  alow  deep  laugh, 
"  if  he  did,  I  wouldn't  give  three  tosses  of  a 
bad  copper  for  his  windpipe." 

"As  the  case  stands  now,  you  labor  under 
the  double  suspicion  of  robbery  and  murder. 
Now  mark  me, — if  you  are  innocent,  I  will 
defend  you.  In  the  course  of  the  day,  I  will 
have  some  future  talk  with  you.  For  the 
present,  your  disguise  will  avoid  suspicion 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


381 


for  a  day  or  two.  You  will  go  with  Israel 
Yorke,  and  report  all  his  movements  to  me. 
My  name  and  residence  you  will  find  on  the 
card  near  the  candlestick.  One  question 
more — there  was  a  boy  with  you, — " 

The  voice  of  the  judge  again  grew  tremu- 
lous. 

Ninety-One,  attired  in  the  neat  frock-coat, 
which  displayed  the  brawny  width  of  his 
chest,  drew  himself  to  his  full  height,  and 
gazed  upon  the  judge,  long  and  earnestly, 
his  eyes  deep-sunken  behind  his  bushy  brows. 

"Do  you  think  I'd  a  answered  all  your 
questions,  hoss,  if  I  hadn't  thought  you  knew 
Bomethin'  o'  my  life  and  had  the  will  and 
the  power  to  set  me  right  afore  the  world  ? 
Well  it's  not  for  my  own  sake,  I  wish  to  be 
set  right,  but  for  the  sake  of  that  boy.  And 
afore  I  answer  your  question,  let  me  ax  an- 
other :  Did  you  ever  happen  to  know  a  man 
named  Doctor  Martin  Fulmer?" 

Ninety-One  could  not  see  the  expression 
of  the  judge's  face,  (for  as  you  are  aware, 
that  face  was  concealed  under  the  shadow 
of  the  broad  brimmed  hat,)  but  when  the 
judge  replied  to  his  question,  his  voice  was 
marked  by  perceptible  agitation: 

"  I  know  Dr.  Fulmer.  In  fact, — in  fact, — 
1  am  often  intrusted  by  him  with  business. 
He  will  be  in  town  to-morrow." 

"  He  is  alive  then,"  exclaimed  Ninety-One. 
"Well  hoss,  when  you  meet  Dr.  Martin 
Fulmer,  jist  tell  him  that  that  boy,  who  was 
with  me,  had  a  parchment  about  his  neck, 
on  which  these  letters  was  wi  it,  '  G.  G.  V. 
H.  C  The  very  same,"  he  continued,  as  if 
thinking  aloud,  "  which  I  used  to  send  in  a 
letter,  to  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer." 

"And  this  boy,"  almost  shrieked  the 
judge,  rising,  and  starting  one  step  forward, 
on  the  platform,  his  corpse-like  hand  extend- 
ed toward  Ninety-One, — "  This  boy  with  the 
parchment  about  his  neck,  where, — where  is 
ne  now  ?" 

CHAPTER  TIL 
"where  is  the  child  of  gulian  van 

HUYDEN  ?" 

"  In  the  early  part  of  the  evenin'  I  left 
fiim  in  this  very  house,  in  company  v/ith  a 
gal  named  Frank, — " 

The  judge  interrupted  him, — "Bring  in 
the  prisoner!"  he  shouted,  and  the  eleven 


shuffled  into  the  room,  escorting  the  little 
gentleman  in  Turkish  jacket  and  trowsers  : 
"Draw  near  sir,"  he  beckoned  to  Ninety-One, 
"attend  this  man  from  this  house, — "  he 
pointed  to  Yorke,  "and  do  with  him  as  I 
direct  you, — thus — "  he  communicated  his 
directions  to  Ninety-One,  in  a  rapid  tone, 
broken  by  emotion,  and  inaudible  to  the 
eleven,  "and  yon  gentlemen, — "  to  the 
eleven, — "  already  have  your  instructions." 

He  paused  and  then  clutched  Ninety-One 
by  the  hand,  the  convict  endeavoring,  al- 
though vainly,  to  gain  a  glimpse  of  his  fea- 
tures,— "  In  this  house  with  Frank  did  you 
say  ?"  his  voice  was  husky. 

"  In  this  house,  with  a  gal  named  Frank," 
answered  Ninety-One. 

The  judge  stepped  hastily  from  the  plat- 
form, and  his  steps  trembling  as  he  went, 
disappeared  through  a  side  door,  his  hands 
clasped  over  his  breast. 

Israel  Yorke  found  himself  alone  with 
Ninety-One  and  the  eleven  gentlemen  with 
clubs.  Ninety-One  addressed  him  in  a  tone 
of  cheerful  politeness  : 

"Come,  old  cock,  you  and  me's  got  to 
travel,"  he  sa'd,  covering  Israel's  right  shoul- 
der with  his  huge  hand. 

Israel,  biting  his  lips  with  illy  suppressed 
rage,  could  not  help  venting  the  bitterness 
of  his  soul,  in  a  single  word, — 

"Devil,"  he  hissed  the  word  between  his 
set  teeth. 

"  Well,  I  am  a  devil  Isr'el,"  answered 
Ninety-One  good  humoredly,  "  an'  your  anoT 
ther.  But  you  see  there's  two  kind  o'  devils. 
I'll  explain  it  to  you.  Once  a  little  sneak  of 
a  devil  came  up  to  the  head  devil,  (this 
happened  in  the  lower  regions,)  and  offered 
to  take  his  arm.,  'you're  one  devil,  and  I'm  ano- 
ther, and  so  w-e're  ekle,'  says  the  little  sneak 
of  a  devil.  Now  the  head  devil  did  not  like 
this.  He  says,  says  he,  to  the  little  sneak, 
'  There's  two  kind  o'  devils,  young  gen'le- 
man.  There's  me,  for  instance, — when  I  fell 
from  Heaven,  I  showed  phick  anyhow,  and 
fell  like  a  devil,  and  went  about  makin' 
stump  speeches  in  the  lower  regions.  But 
you, — you, — what  was  you  doing  meanwhile? 
Sneakin'  out  o'  Heaven  with  your  carpet-bag 
full  of  gold  bricks,  w^hich  you  had  stolen 
from  the  gold  pavement.'  Now.  Isr'el  the 
name  of  the  first  devil  was  Beelzebub,  and 


182  IN  THE 

the  little  sneak  of  a  devil  was  called,  Mam- 
mon.   Do  yo!i  take  ?" 

The  eleven  gentlemen  with  clubs,  received 
this  elegant  apologue,  with  evident  pleasure, 
manifesting  their  delight  by  a  unanimous 
burst  of  laughter. 

Israel  said  nothing,  but  evidently  was  ab- 
sorbed in  a  multitude  of  reflections,  not  al- 
together of  the  most  pleasant  character. 

In  a  short  time,  once  more  arrayed  in 
his  every-day  attire  he  left  the  Temple,  ac- 
companied by  Ninety-One,  and  followed  by 
the  eleven. 

Hastening  from  the  "  Court  of  Ten  Mil- 
lions," his  hands  clasped  tightly  over  his 
breast,  and  his  steps  trembling  as  he  went, 
THE  JUDGE  was  determined,  at  all  hazards, 
to  obtain  an  immediate  interview  with 
Frank.  Hurrying  along  a  dark  passage,  and 
then  down  the  dark  stairway, — for  the 
lights  had  been  extinguished,  and  the 
Temple  was  dark  and  silent  as  the  tomb, — 
the  judge  muttered  frequently  the  words  "in 
this  house, — in  this  house!"  and  then  ex- 
claimed,— "  0,  he  cannot,  cannot  escape  me  ! 
The  hand  of  fate  has  led  him  hither." 

He  opened  a  door,  and  entered  the  mag- 
nificent apartment,  in  which,  in  the  early 
part  of  the  evening,  Tarleton  feasted  with 
his  friends,  while  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
sat  the  corse  of  Evelyn  Somers.  Now  all 
was  dark  and  silent  there. 

The  judge  lost  no  time,  but  retraced  his 
steps  and  hurried  up-stairs.  He  presently 
entered  the  Central  Chamber,  where  a  few 
candles  burned  to  their  sockets,  shed  their 
pale  and  uncertain  light,  over  the  pictures 
and  the  mirrors,  the  tables  covered  with 
flowers,  and  the  lofty  ceiling  supported  by 
marble  pillars.  When  last  v:e  saw  the 
Central  Chamber,  it  was  all  life  and  motion  ; 
warm  pulses  were  throbbing,  bright  eyes 
flashing  there.  Then  gay  and  varied  cos- 
tumes glittered  in  the  light,  and  each  volup- 
tuous recess,  echoed  to  the  sighs  of  passion. 
Now  the  scene  presented  that  saddest  of  all 
spectacles, — the  decaying  lights  of  a  festival, 
emitting  their  last  dim  gleam,  upon  the  faded 
splendors  of  the  forsaken  festal  hall.  Popes, 
Caliphs,  Cardinals,  Quakeresses,  Knights,  > 
Nymphs  and  Houris,  all  were  gone.  The 
place  was  silent  as  the  grave,  and  much 
more  sad. 


TEMPLE. 

A  single  form  walked  slowly  up  and 
down  the  silent  hall, — a  woman,  whose  no 
ble  person  was  attired  in  black  velvet,  her 
dark  hair  falling  to  her  shoulders,  and  a 
white  cross  clustering  on  her  brow.  Her 
hands  dropped  listlessly  by  her  side,  and 
her  dark  eyes  dilating  in  their  sockets,  were 
fixed  in  a  vacant  stare.  ■ 

"  Frank,  I  must  speak  with  you  at  once, 
and  on  a  subject  of  life  and  death,"  cried  the 
judge,  suddenly  confronting  her.  Even  as  he 
spoke,  he  was  startled  at  the  unnatural 
pallor  of  her  face.  "  To-night  a  young 
man,  in  whose  history  I  am  fearfully  inter- 
ested, entered  this  house,  and  saw  you  in 
your  chamber.  He  is  now  here,"  he  continued 
impetuously, — "  I  must  see  him." 

"  You  mean  the  lost  son  of  Gulian  Van 
Huyden  ?"  she  calmly  said,  pausing  in  her 
walk,  and  folding  her  arms  over  her  breast. 

"  He  was  here  then,"  cried  the  judge,  evi- 
dently wild  with  agitation,  "  nay  he  is  here 
now." 

"  He  was  here  half  an  hour  ago,"  returned 
Frank,  who,  pre-occupied  with  her  own 
thoughts,  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  agita- 
tion of  the  Judge, — "  half  an  hour  ago  ne 
left  the  house." 

"Left  the  house?  "Whither  has  he  gone?" 
"I  know  not." 

"Child,  child,  you  mock  me,"  in  his  agi- 
tation he  seized  her  wrist, — "  I  must  see 
this  boy,  it  is  upon  a  matter  of  life  and 
death.   For  God's  sake  do  not  trifle  with  me." 

"I  tell  you,  that  he  left  the  house  half 
an  hour  ago,"  returned  Frank,  "and  as  I 
hope  to  have  peace  in  the  hour  of  my  death, 
I  do  not  know  whither  he  has  gone." 

The  solemnity  of  her  tone  impressed  the 
judge. 

"  But  will  he  return  ?" 
"  He  will  never  return, — never  !"  she  an- 
swered, and  it  seemed  to  the  judge,  as  thougli 
there  was  a  hidden  meaning  in  her  words. 

"  0,  do  not  drive  me  to  despair.    I  must 
see  this  j'outh,  before  to-morrow, — yes,  to- 
day,— this  hour  !" 
"You  will  never  see  him  in  this  house  again." 
"  Did  he  leave  this  house  alone,  or  was  he 
'  accompanied, — and  by  whom  ?" 

A  strange  smile  passed  over  her  face  as 
she  replied  in  a  whisper — 

"  He  was  accompanied  by  Mary  Berman, 


FEOM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


183 


who  arisen  from  the  grave,  came  here  to  ' 
claim  her  husband."  I 

The  Judge  uttered  a  wild  ejaculation,  and 
sank  half  fainting  in  a  chair, — his  hat  fell 
from  his  brow,  and  his  face  was  revealed. 

That  face,  remarkable  in  every  outline, 
■was  bathed  in  cold  moisture,  and  distorted 
by  contending  emotions. 

CHAPTER  YIII. 

BEVERLY  AND  JOANNA. 

In  the  Temple,  near  the  hour  of  dawn,  on  | 
the  morning  of  the  24th  of  December,  1844. 
«  Fallen  !" 

Yes,  fallen  !  nevermore  to  press  the  kiss 
of  a  pure  mother  upon  the  lips  of  her  inno- 
cent child.  Fallen  !  never  more  to  meet  her 
husband's  gaze,  with  the  look  of  a  chaste 
and  faithful  wife.  Fallen  !  —  from  wifely 
purity,  from  all  that  makes  the  past  holy,  or 
the  future  hopeful — fallen,  from  all  that 
makes  life  worth  the  having, — fallen  !  and 
forever  ! 

"Fallen!" 

Oh,  how  this  word,  trembling  from  her 
lips — wrung  from  her  heart — echoed  through 
the  stillness  of  the  dimly-lighted  chamber. 

She  was  seated  on  the  sofa,  her  noble  form 
clad  in  the  white  silken  robe — her  hands 
clasped  —  her  golden  hair  unbound  —  her 
neck  and  shoulders  bare  :  and  the  same  light 
hanging  from  the  ceiling,  which  disclosed 
the  details  of  that  luxurious  chamber — car- 
pet, chairs,  sofa,  mirror,  and  the  snow-white 
couch  in  a  distant  recess — fell  upon  her  beau- 
tiful countenance,  and  revealed  the  remorse 
that  was  written  there.  There  was  a  wild, 
startled  look  in  her  blue  eyes;  her  lips  %vere 
apart;  her  cheek  was  now,  pale  as  death,  and 
then,  flushed  with  the  scarlet  hues  of  una- 
vailing shame. 

He  was  reclining  at  her  feet ;  his  arm 
resting  on  the  sofa;  his  face  upturned — his 
eyes  gazing  into  hers.  Clad  in  the  costume 
of  the  white  monk — a  loose  robe  of  white 
cloth,  with  wide  sleeves,  edged  with  red — 
Beverly  Barron  toyed  with  his  flaxen  curls, 
as  he  looked  into  her  face,  and  remarked  her 
vnth  a  look  of  mingled  meaning.  There 
was  base  appetite,  gratified  vanity,  but  no 
remorse  in  his  look. 

And  the  l.ght  fell  on  his  florid  face,  with  | 
12 


'  its  sensual  mouth,  receding  chin,  wide 
I  nostrils,  and  bullet-shaped  forehead,  encircled 
by  ringlets  of  flaxen  hair — a  face  altogether 
cmimal,  with  scarcely  a  single  ray  of  a 
higher  nature,  to  light  up  or  refine  its  gross- 
ness. 

"  Fallen  !"  cried  Joanna;  and  clasped  her 
hands,  and  shuddered,  as  if  with  cold. 

"  Never  mind,  dear,"  said  Beverly,  and  he 
bent  forward  and  kissed  her  hands — "  I  will 
love  you  always  !" 

"  Oh,  my  God  1" — and  in  that  ejaculation, 
all  the  agony  of  her  soul  found  utterance, — 
"  Oh,  my  God  !  my  child  !" 

Beverly  knelt  at  her  feet,  and  kissed  her 
clenched  hands,  and  endeavored  to  soothe 
her  with  professions  of  undying  love  ;  but 
she  tore  her  hands  from  his  grasp — 

"  My  husband  1  How  can  I  ever  look  into 
his  face  again  !" 

Had  you  seen  that  noble  form,  swelling  in 
every  fiber ;  had  you  seen  the  silken  robe, 
heaved  upward  by  the  agony  which  filled 
her  bosom  ;  had  you  seen  the  look,  so  wild — 
remorseful  —  almost  mad  —  which  stamped 
her  face, — you  would  have  felt  the  emphasis 
with  which  she  uttered  these  terrible  words, 
"  My  husband  !  How  can  I  ever  look  into 
his  face  again  !" 

"  Your  husband,"  whispered  Beverly,  with 
something  of  the  devil  in  his  eyes,  "your 
husband,  even  now,  is  on  his  way  to  Boston, 
where  the  chosen  mistress  of  his  heart  awaits 
him.  His  brother  is  at  the  point  of  death, 
is  he  ?  ha,  ha,  Joanna  !  'Twas  a  good  excuse, 
but,  like  all  excuses,  rather  lame — when 
found  out.  The  poor,  good,  dear  Joanna, 
sits  at  home,  pining  at  her  husband's  ab- 
sence, while  he,  the  faithful  Eugene,  consoles 
himself  in  the  arms  of  his  Boston  love  !" 

"  It  cannot  be  !  it  cannot  be  !"  cried  Jo- 
anna, beating  the  carpet  with  her  foot,  and 
pressing  her  clenched  hands  against  her 
heaving  breast. 

"Do  you  see  this,  darling  ?"  and,  throwing 
the  robe  of  the  white  monk  aside,  he  dis- 
closed his  "  flashy"  scarf,  white  vest  and 
gold  chain.  "  Do  you  see  this,  j)et  ?"  and 
from  beneath  his  white  vest  he  drew  forth  a 
package  of  letters. — "  Her  letters  to  her  dear 
Eugene  !  How  she  loves  him  —  how  she 
pities  him,  because  he  is  not  married  to  a 
I  sympathetic  soul, — how  she  counts  the  hjursi 


IN  THE  TEMPLE. 


that  must  elapse  before  ho  comes  !  It  is  all 
written  here,  darling !" 

Joanna  took  the  package  and  passed  it 
absently  from  one  hand  to  the  other.  "  Yes, 
yes,  I  read  them  yesterday  !  It  is  true,  be- 
yond hope  of  doubt.  He  loves  her  ! — he 
loves  her !" 

"And  you," — Beverly  arose  and  seated 
himself  by  her  side,  winding  his  arm  about 
her  waist.  "And  you,  like  a  brave,  noble 
woman,  whose  dearest  affections  have  been 
trampled  upon," — he  wound  his  left  hand 
amid  the  rich  masses  of  her  golden  hair, — 
"you,  like  a  brave,  proud  heart,  whose  very 
May  of  life  has  been  blighted  by  a  husband's 
treachery,  —  have  avenged  yourself  upon 
him !" 

He  pressed  his  kiss  upon  her  lips.  But 
the  warmth  of  passion  had  passed  away. 
Her  lips  were  cold.  She  shrunk  from  his 
embrace.  The  vail  had  fallen  from  her 
eyes ;  the  delusion,  composed  of  a  mad  pas- 
sion and  a  mad  desire  for  revenge,  had  left 
her,  and  she  knew  herself  to  be  no  longer 
the  stainless  wife  and  holy  mother — but  that 
thing  for  which  on  earth  there  is  no  forgive- 
ness— an  adulteress ! 

"  No,  Beverly,  no.  It  will  not  avail.  His 
fault  was  no  excuse  for  my  crime.  For  his 
fault  affects  me  only — wrongs  me  alone — but 
mine — ,"  there  was  a  choking  sensation  in 
her  throat  —  she  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands—"  Oh  God  !  oh  God  !  my  child  !" 

Beverly  took  a  bottle  of  champagne 
which  stood  upon  the  table,  drew  the  cork, 
and  filled  two  brimming  glasses. 

"You  are  nervous,  my  darling,"  he  said, 
"  take  this.  Let  us  pledge  each  other — for 
the  past,  forgetfulness — for  the  future,  hope 
and  love." 

He  stood  erect  beneath  the  lamp — his  tall 
form,  clad  in  the  robe  of  the  white  monk, 
relieved  by  the  very  gloom  of  the  luxurious 
chamber ;  he  pressed  the  glass  to  his  lips, 
and  over  its  rim  surveyed  the  white  couch, 
which  looked  dim  and  shadowy  in  its  distant 
recess, — he  murmured,  "  Eugene,  your  mag- 
nificent wife  is  mine  !" 

And  then  drained  the  glass  without  mov- 
ing it  from  his  lips. 

She  took  the  glass  and  drank  ;  but  the 
same  wine  which  an  hour  ago  had  fired  her 
blood,  and  completed  the  delusion  of  her 


senses,  now  only  added  to  her  remorse  and 
shame. 

"My  father, — so  proud  of  his  name,  so 
proud  of  the  honor  of  his  son,  the  purity  of 
his  daughter,  how  shall  I  ever  meet  his  eye? 
how  can  I  ever  look  him  in  the  face 
again?" 

And  the  image  of  that  stern  old  man,  with 
wrinkled  visage  and  snow-white  hair,  rose 
vividly  before  her.  Her  father  was  an  aris- 
tocrat of  the  old  school — proud,  not  of  his 
mone}^  but  of  his  blood.  The  royal  blood 
of  Orange  flowed  in  his  veins.  Loving  his 
only  daughter  better  than  his  own  soul,  he 
would  have  put  her  to  death  with  his  own 
hand,  sooner  than  she  should  incur  even  the 
suspicion  of  dishonor. 

"  Pshaw,  Joanna  !  He  need  never  know 
anj'thing  about  the  adventures  of  this  night. 
You  have  been  slighted,  and  you  have  taken 
your  revenge ; — that  is  all.  No  one  need 
know  anything  about  it.  You  will  mingle 
in  society  as  usual ;  these  things,  my  darling, 
are  almost  things  of  course  in  the  fashionable 
Avorld,  among  the  '  upper  ten."  Among  the 
beautiful  dames  whom  you  see  at  the  opera, 
on  a  'grand  night,'  how  many  do  you  sup- 
pose would  waste  one  thought  of  regret  upon 
an  adventure  like  this  ?" 

Joanna  buried  her  burning  temples  in  her 
hands.  All  of  her  life  rushed  before  her. 
Her  childhood — tEe"  days  of  her  pure  maid- 
enhood— the  hour  of  her  marriage,  when  she 
gave  herself  to  the  husband  who  idolized 
her,— the  hour  of  her  travail,  when  she  gave 
birth  to  her  child, — all  rushed  upon  her, 
with  the  voices,  tones,  faces  of  other  days, 
commingled  in  one  brief  but  vivid  pano- 
rama. 

"  You  see,  my  pet,  you  know  but  little  of 
the  world,"  continued  Beverly.    "In  the 
very  dawn  of  your  beauty,  ignorant  of  the 
world,  and  of  the  value  of  your  own  loveli- 
ness, you  wedded  Eugene.   Life  was  a  rose- 
colored  dream  to  you ;  you  thought  of  him 
'  only  as  the  ideal  of  your  existence.  You 
'  thought  that  he  regarded  you  in  the  same 
j  light.    You  did  not  dream  that  he  would 
ever  regard  you  simply  as  the  handsomest 
I  piece  of  fm-niture  about  his  splendid  estab- 
I  lishment,— a  splendid  fixture,  destined  to 
I  bear  him  children  who  would  perpetuate  the 
1  name  of  Livingston, — while  his  roving  affec- 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


185 


tious  wandered  about  the  world,  constantly 
seeking  new  objects  of  passionate  regard. 
You  never  dreamt  of  this,  did  you,  darling?" 

Joanna  uttered  a  groan.  Pressing  her 
hands  to  her  throbbing  temples,  she  felt  her 
bosom  swell,  but  could  not  frame  a  word. 

"  Now,  my  dear,  you  are  a  woman  ;  you 
know  something  of  the  world.  Like  hun- 
dreds of  others  of  your  wealth  and  station, 
you  can,  under  the  vail  of  decorum,  select 
the  object  of  a  passionate  attachment,  and 
indulge  your  will  at  pleasure.  A  bright  fu- 
ture, rich  in  love  and  in  all  that  makes  life 
dear,  is  before  you  " 

And  Beverly  drew  her  to  him,  putting  one 
arm  about  her  neck,  while  his  left  hand  gir- 
dled her  bosom.  As  he  kissed  her,  her  gol- 
den hair  floated  over  his  face  and  shoulders. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  without 
a  sound,  and  a  man  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  with 
a  cap  over  his  brow,  advanced  with  a  noise- 
less step  toward  the  sofa. 

It  was  not  until  his  shadow  interposed  be- 
tween them  and  the  light,  that  they  beheld 
him.  As  Joanna  raised  her  head,  struggling 
to  free  herself  from  the  embrace  of  her  sedu- 
cer, she  beheld  the  intruder,  who  had  lifted 
his  cap  from  his  brow. 

"0  God,  Eugene  !"  she  shrieked,  and  fell 
back  upon  the  sofa,  not  fainting,  but  utterly 
paralyzed,  her  limbs  as  cold  as  marble,  her 
blood  turned  to  ice  in  her  veins. 

It  was  Eugene  Livingston.  Gently  fold- 
ing his  arms,  cap  in  hand,  he  surveyed  his 
wife.  His  face  was  turned  from  the  light, — 
its  ghastly  paleness  could  not  be  seen.  His 
cloak  hid  the  heavings  of  his  breast.  But 
the  light  which  fired  his  eyes,  met  the  eyes 
of  his  wife,  and  burned  into  her  soul. 

He  did  not  speak  to  her. 

Turning  from  her,  he  surveyed  Beverly 
Barron,  who  had  started  to  his  feet,  and  who 
now  stood  as  if  suddenly  frozen,  with  some-  | 
thing  of  the  look  and  attitude  of  a  man  who  ' 
is  condemned  to  watch  a  lighted  candle,  as 
it  burns  away  in  the  center  of  a  barrel  of  i 
gunpowder.  | 

Not  a  word  was  spoken.  | 

Joanna  crouching  on  the  sofa,  her  chin' 
resting  on  her  clasped  hands, — Beverly  on  ' 
the  floor,  his  hands  outspread,  and  his  face  | 
dumb  with  terror, — Eugene  standing  between 
them,  folding  his  cloak  upon  his  breast,  as  ; 


he  silently  turned  his  gaze,  first  to  his  wife, 
and  then  to  her  seducer. 

At  length  Eugene  spoke, — 

"Come,  Joanna,"  he  said,  "here  is  youi 
father.    He  will  take  you  home." 

She  looked  up  and  beheld  the  straight,  mil- 
itary form,  the  stern  visage  and  snow-white 
hair  of  her  father.  One  look  only,  and  she 
sank  lifeless  at  his  feet.  She  may  have 
meant  to  have  knelt  before  him,  but  as  she 
rose  from  the  Fofa,  or  rather,  glided  from  it^ 
she  fell  like  a  corpse  at  his  feet.  The  old 
general's  nether  lip  worked  convulsively,  but 
he  did  not  speak. 

"  General,  take  her  to  my  home,  and  ;*t 
once,"  whispered  Eugene.    "  There  must  be 

no  scandal,  no  noise,  and  "  he  paused 

as  if  suffocating, — "  no  harshness,  mark  you." 

The  general  was  a  stalwart  man,  although 
his  hair  was  white  as  snow, — a  man  whose 
well-knit  limbs,  erect  bearing,  and  sinewy 
hands,  indicated  physical  vigor  undimmed 
by  age,  but  he  trembled  like  a  withered  leaf 
as  he  raised  his  daughter  from  the  floor. 

"  I  will  do  as  you  direct,  Eugene,"  he  said, 
in  a  husky  voice. 

"You  will  find  her  cloak  in  the  next 
room,"  said  Eugene,  "  and  the  carriage  is  at 
the  door." 

The  general  girded  his  insensible  daughter 
in  his  arms,  and  bore  her  from  the  room. 
As  he  crossed  the  threshold,  he  groaned  like 
a  dying  man. 

Eugene  and  Beverly  were  alone.  Beverly 
at  a  rapid  glance  surveyed  the  room.  Eugene 
stood  between  him  and  the  door  ;  he  turned 
to  the  windows,  which  were  covered  with 
thick  curtains.  Those  windows  were  three 
stories  high.  There  was  no  hope  of  escape 
by  the  windows. 

"  Will  you  take  a  chair,  my  friend,"  said 
Eugene. 

Beverly  sank  into  a  chair,  near  the  table  ; 
as  he  seated  himself,  he  felt  his  knees  bend 
beneath  him,  and  his  heart  leap  to  his  throat. 

Eugene  took  a  chair  opposite,  and  shad- 
ing his  eyes  with  his  hand,  surveyed  the 
seducer.  There  was  silence  for  a  feAv  mo- 
ments, a  silence  during  which  both  these 
men  endured  the  agonies  of  the  damned. 

"  You  have  a  daughter,  I  believe,"  said 
Eugene,  in  a  voice  that  was  broken  by  a 
tremor.    *'  You  may  wish  to  send  some  word 


186  IN  THE 

to  her.  Here  is  a  pencil  and  tablets.  Let 
me  ask  you  to  be  brief." 

He  flung  the  pencil  and  tablets  upon  the 
table.  Beverly  recoiled  as  though  a  serpent 
had  stung  him. 

"  Eugene,"  he  faltered,  for  the  first  time 
finding  words,  "  you — you  do  not  mean  to 
murder  me  ?  " 

And  his  florid  face  grew  ashy  with  abject 
terror. 

Eugene  did  not  reply,  but  knocked  twice 
upon  the  marble  table  with  his  clenched 
hand.  Scarcely  had  the  echo  of  the  sound 
died  away,  when  the  door  was  once  more 
opened,  and  two  persons  advanced  to  the 
table. 

The  first  was  a  tall,  muscular  man,  with  a 
phlegmatic  face,  light  hair,  and  huge  red 
whiskers.  His  blue  frock-coat  was  buttoned 
to  the  throat,  and  he  carried  an  oblong  box 
in  his  hands. 

"Joanna's  brother !"  ejaculated  Beverly. 

The  second  person  was  a  dapper  little 
gentleman,  with  small  eyes,  a  hooked  nose> 
and  an  enormous  black  moustache.  He  was 
dressed  in  black,  with  a  gold  chain  on  his 
breast,  and  a  diamond  pin  in  his  faultless 
sHrt  bosom. 

"  Major  Barton  !  "  ejaculated  Beverly, 
bounding  from  his  seat,  for  in  Major  Barton 
he  recognized  an  old  and  intimate  acquaint- 
ance. 

"Robert,"  said  Eugene,  turning  to  Joan- 
na's brother,  "  what  have  you  there  ?  " 

"  The  dueling  pistols,"  quietly  responded 
Robert. 

"  Have  you  and  this  gentleman's  friend 
arranged  the  preliminaries  ?  " 

"  We  have,"  interrupted  the  dapper  Ma- 
jor ;  "  distance,  ten  paces, — place,  Weehawk, 
opposite  the  city, — time,  right  ofiF." 

"  This  without  consulting  me  !  "  cried 
Beverly,  who  at  the  mention  of  a  duel,  felt 
a  hope  lighten  up  in  his  heart,  for  coward  as 
he  was,  he  was  also  a  capital  shot. 

"  Gentlemen,  I  beg  to  say,  "  he  drew 

his  White  Monk's  robe  over  his  heart,  and 
assumed  a  grand  air, — "  gentlemen,  " 

The  dapper  little  major  glided  to  his 
side, — 

"Bev.,  my  boy,  better  be  quiet.  Eugene 
waited  on  me  an  hour  ago  and  explained  all 
the  circumstances, — desired  me  to  act  as 


TEMPLE. 

your  frierid.  As  Pd  rather  see  you  have  £i 
chance  for  your  life  in  a  duel,  than  to  see 
you  killed  in  such  a  house  as  this,  like  a  dog, 
I  consented.  Bev.,  my  boy,  better  be  quiet." 

"  If  you  don't  wish  to  fight,  say  so,"  and 
the  phlegmatic  Robert  stepped  forward,  eye- 
ing Beverly  with  a  look  of  settled  ferocity, 
that  was  not  altogether  pleasant  to  see, — "  if 
you  decline  the  duel,  just  say  so  in  the  pres- 
ence of  your  friend.  Major  Barton.  Just 
say  no." 

And  Robert  eyed  Beverly  from  head  to 
foot,  as  though  it  would  afi'ord  him  much 
pleasure  to  pitch  him  from  the  third  story 
window. 

"I  will  fight,"  said  Beverly,  pale  and  red 
by  turns. 

"  Then  I'll  get  your  hat,  and  coat,  and 
cloak,"  said  the  obliging  major, — "  they're 
in  the  next  room.  We  must  leave  the  house 
quietly,  and  there's  a  boat  waiting  for  us,  at 
the  foot  of  the  street,  or  the  North  River. 
We  can  cross  to  the  Jersey  shore,  before 
morning  breaks.  It  will  be  a  nice  little  af- 
fair all  among  ourselves.  By-the-bye,  how 
about  a  surgeon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  surgeon  ! "  echoed  Robert,  turn- 
ing to  Eugene,  who,  seated  by  the  table, 
rested  his  forehead  against  his  hand. 

"  We  will  not  need  a  surgeon,"  said  Eu- 
gene, raising  his  face,  from  which  all  color 
of  life  had  fled.  "Because  our  fight  is  to  the 
death." 

CHAPTER  IX. 

MARY  BERMAN — CARL  RAPHAEL. 

They  sat  near  the  marriage  altar,  their 
hands  clasped,  and  their  gaze  fixed  upon 
each  other's  face.  The  countenance  of 
Nameless  was  radiant  with  a  deep  joy. 
One  hand  resting  upon  the  neck  of  Mary, 
the  other  clasping  her  hand,  his  soul  was  in 
his  eyes,  as  he  looked  into  her  face.  Her 
hair,  brown  and  wavy,  streamed  over  the 
hand,  which  rested  on  her  neck.  Despite 
her  faded  attire, — the  gown  of  coarse  calico, 
and  the  mantilla  of  black  velvet,  —  Mary  was 
very  beautiful;  as  beautiful  as  her  name.  All 
the  life  which  swelled  her  young  bosom, 
was  manifested  in  the  bloom  of  her  cheeks, 
the  clear,  joyous  look  of  her  eyes.  Her 
beauty  was  the  pnriK  of  a  stainless  soul, 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  UNTIL  DAWN. 


187 


embodied  in  a  person,  rich  with  every  tint 
and  outlino  of  warm,  womanly  loveliness. 

"Well  might  my  whole  being  thrill,  as 
you  passed  by  me  to-night !  Your  form 
was  vailed,  your  face  hid,  but  ray  soul  knew 
that  you  Averc  near  1" 

"  0,  Carl,  in  all  our  lives,  we  will  never 
know  a  moment  of  joy  so  deep  as  this  !" — 
and  there  was  something  of  a  holy  sadness 
in  Mary's  gaze  as  she  spoke, — "After  years 
of  sorrow  and  trial,  that  might  break  the 
stoutest  hearts,  we  have  met  again,  like  two 
persons  who  have  risen  from  the  grave. 
The  world  is  so  dark,  Carl, — so  crowded 
with  the  callous  and  the  base, — that  I  fear 
for  our  future.  0,  v/ould  it  not  be  beautiful, 
yes  holy,  to  die  now,  in  each  other's  arms, 
at  the  moment  when  our  hearts  are  filled 
with  the  deepest  joy  they  can  ever  know  ?" 

The  words  of  the  pure  girl,  uttered  in  a 
voice  imbued  with  a  melancholy  enthusiasm, 
cast  a  shadow  over  the  face  of  Nameless,  and 
brought  a  sad  intense  light  to  his  eyes. 

*'  Yes,  Mary,  it  is  even  so,"  he  replied, — 
"  it  is  a  harsh  and  bitter  world,  in  which  the 
base  and  callous-hearted,  prey  upon  those 
who  have  souls.  When  I  think  of  my  own 
history,  and  of  yours,  it  does  not  seem  reality, 
to  me,  but  the  images  of  the  past  move 
before  me,  like  the  half  defined  shapes  of  a 
troubled  dream." 

And  he  bent  his  forehead, — fevered  and 
throbbing  with  thought,  upon  her  bosom, 
and  listened  to  the  beatings  of  that  heart, 
which  had  been  true  to  him,  in  every  phase 
of  his  dark  life.  She  pressed  her  lips  silently 
upon  his  brow. 

"  But  the  future  is  bright  before  us,  Mary," 
lie  whispered,  raising  his  face,  once  more 
radiant  with  hope, — "the  cottage  by  the 
river  shore,  shall  be  ours  again  !  0,  don't 
you  remember  it,  Mary,  as  it  leans  against 
the  cliff,  with  the  river  stretching  before  it, 
and  the  palisades  rising  far  away,  into  the 
western  sky  ?  We  will  live  there,  Mary, 
and  forget  the  world."  Alas  !  he  knew  not 
of  the  poison  in  his  veins.  "Your  father, 
too,—" 

"  My  father !"  she  echoed,  starting  from 
her  chair,  as  the  memory  of  that  broken  man 
with  the  idiot  face, — never  for  a  moment 
forgotten, —  came  vividly  before  her,  "  My 
father  !  come  Carl,  let  us  go  to  him  !' 


She  wound  the  mantilla  about  her  form, 
and  Carl,  otherwise  Nameless,  also  rose  from 
his  chair,  when  a  footstep  was  heard,  and 
the  door  was  abruptly  opened. 

"  Leave  this  house,  at  once,  as  you  value 
your  life,"  cried  an  agitated  voice, — "  You 
know  my  father, — know  that  he  will  shrink 
from  no  crime,  when  his  darker  nature  is 
aroused, — you  have  foiled  the  purpose  which 
was  more  than  life  to  him.  There  is  danger 
for  you  in  this  house  !  away  !" 

"  Frank !"  was  all  that  Nameless  could 
ejaculate,  as  he  saw  her  stand  before  him, 
lividly  pale,  her  hair  unbound,  and  the  gol- 
den cross  rising  and  falling  upon  her  heaving 
bosom.  There  was  a  light  in  her  eyes, 
which  he  had  never  seen  before. 

"  No  words,"  she  continued  in  broken  and 
rapid  tones,  —  "you  must  away  at  once. 
You  are  not  safe  from  poison," — a  bitter, 
mocking  smile, — "  or  steel,  or  any  treachery, 
as  long  as  you  linger  in  this  house.  But 
this  is  no  time  for  masquerade  attire, — in  tho 
next  room  you  will  find  the  apparel  which 
you  wore,  when  first  you  entered  this  house, 
together  with  a  cloak,  which  will  protect 
you  from  the  cold.  You  have  no  time  to 
lose, — give  me  that  bauble,"  and  she  tore  th^ 
chain  from  his  neck  and  the  golden  cross  from 
his  breast, — "away, — you  have  not  a  mo- 
ment to  lose."    She  pointed  to  the  door. 

"  Frank  !"  again  ejaculated  Nameless,  and 
something  like  remorse  smote  his  heart,  as 
he  gazed  upon  her  countenance,  so  sadly 
changed. 

"Will  you  drive  me  mad?  Go  !"  again 
she  pointed  to  the  door. 

Nameless  disappeared. 

"And  you,—"  she  took  the  hands  of 
Mary  within  her  own,  and  raised  them  to 
her  breast,  and  gazed  long  and  earnestly  into 
that  virgin  face, — "  You,  0,  I  hate  you  !"  she 
said  her  eyes  flashing  fire,  and  yet  the  next 
moment,  she  kissed  Mary  on  the  cheeks  and 
forehead,  and  pressed  her  to  her  bosom  with 
a  frenzied  embrace.  "  You  are  worthy  of 
him,"  she  said  slowly,  in  a  low  voice,  again 
perusing  every  line  of  that  countenance, — 
"  I  know  you,  although  an  hour  ago,  I  did 
not  know  that  you  lived  ;"  once  more  her 
tones  were  rapid  and  broken, — "know  your 
history,  know  who  it  was  that  lured  you  to 
this  place,  and  know  the  desolate  condition 


188 


IN  THE  TEMPLE. 


of  your  father.  Your  husband  has  money, 
but  it  will  not  be  safe  for  him  to  attempt  to 
use  it  for  some  days.  Take  this, — conceal  it 
in  your  bosom, — na}'^,  I  will  take  no  denial. 
Take  it  child  !  That  money  and  purse  are 
not  the  wages  of  pollution, — they  were  both 
mine*  in  the  days  when  I  was  pure  and 
liapf)y." 

Scarcely  knowing  what  to  do,  Mary,  whom 
the  wild  manner  of  Frank,  struck  at  once 
with  pity  and  awe,  took  the  purse,  and  hid 
it  in  her  bosom. 

"I  now  remember  you,"  said  Mary,  her 
eyes  filling  with  tears,  as  she  gazed  into  the 
troubled  face  of  Frank, — "  Father  painted 
your  picture,  and  afterward  you  sought  us 
out  in  our  garret,  and  left  your  purse  upon 
the  table,  with  a  note  stating  that  it  contained 
the  balance  due  on  your  portrait.  0,  it  was 
kind,  it  was  noble, — " 

"  Do  not  speak  of  it,  child,"  Frank  said  in 
rapid  and  abrupt  tones, — "Had  I  not  been 
convinced  that  you  and  your  father  were 
dead,  I  would  have  visited  you  often.  That 
is,  if  I  could  have  concealed  from  you  what 
I  was,  and  the  way  of  life  which  was  mine." 

Her  lip  quivered,  and  she  hid  her  eyes 
with  her  hand. 

"But  come,  your  husband  is  here,"  she 
said,  as  Nameless  re-appeared,  his  form  once 
more  clad  in  the  faded  frock-coat,  but  with 
a  cloak  drooping  from  his  shoulders.  "  You 
must  away,  and  at  once." 

"  Frank," — and  Nameless,  trembling  with 
agitation,  approached  her,  "we  will  meet 
again  in  happier  hours." 

O,  the  strange  look  of  her  eyes,  the  bitter 
mocking  curl  of  her  lip  ! 

"  We  will  never  meet  again,"  she  answered, 
in  a  voice  that  sunk  into  his  heart.  Then 
burying  the  chain  and  golden  cross  in  her 
bosom,  she  placed  a  letter  in  his  hand, — 


"  Swear  to  me  that  you  will  not  read  this, 
until  three  hours  at  least  are  passed  ?" 

"  I  promise, — " 

"  Nay,  you  must  swear  it, — " 

"  I  swear,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  !" 

"Now  depart,  and, — "  she  turned  her 
face  away  from  their  gaze,  and  pointed  to 
the  door. 

As  she  turned  away,  Mary  approached 
her,  and  put  her  arms  about  her  neck,  and 
her  eyes  brim  full  of  tears  all  the  while, — 
kissed  her  on  the  forehead  and  the  lips, 
saying  at  the  same  time,  and  from  the  depths 
of  her  heart,  "May  God  in  Heaven  bless 
you !" 

Frank  took  Mary's  arms  from  her  neck, 
and  joined  her  hand  in  that  of  Nameless, 
and  then  pushed  them  gently  to  the  door, — 
"  Go,  and  at  once,"  she  whispered. 

And  they  crossed  the  threshold,  Mary 
looking  back  over  her  shoulder,  until  she 
disappeared  with  Nameless,  in  the  shadows 
of  the  passage. 

Frank  stood  with  one  hand  extended  to 
the  door,  and  the  other  supporting  her 
averted  face, — she  heard  their  footsteps  in 
the  passage,  on  the  stairway,  and  in  the  hall 
beneath.  Then  came  the  sound  of  the 
opening  and  closing  of  the  door,  which  led 
into  the  street. 

And  then  the  agony,  the  despair,  the 
thousand  emotions  which  racked  her  soul, 
found  utterance  in  the  simple,  and  yet 
awfully  touching  ejaculation,  — "  0,  my 
God  ! — "  and  she  flung  herself  on  her  knees, 
before  the  Marriage  Altar,  resting  her  clench- 
ed hands  upon  the  Holy  Bible,  which  was  con- 
cealed by  her  bowed  head,  and  unbound  hair. 

"  0,  my  God  !  He  is  gone,  and — forever  !" 

Yes,  Frank,  woman  so  beautiful  and  so 
utterly  lost,  gone  and  forever — gone,  with  his 
young  wife  by  his  side,  and  Poison  in  his  veip^i 


NEW  YORK: 

ITS 

UPPER -TEN  AND  LOWER  MILLION. 


PART  FIFTH. 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 

DECEMBER  24,  1844. 


CHArTER  I. 
"the  other  child." 
Baffled  schemer! 

In  the  dim  hour  which  comes  before  the 
fcreak  of  day,  Colonel  Tarleton  was  hurrying 
rapidly  along  the  silent  and  deserted  street. 

Broadway,  a  few  hours  since,  all  light,  and 
life,  and  motion,  was  now  lonely  as  a  desert. 
Gathering  his  cloak  over  his  white  coat,  and 
drawing  his  cap  lower  upon  his  brows,  Tarle- 
ton hurried  along  with  a  rapid  and  impetuous 
step,  now  and  then  suifering  the  thoughts 
which  filled  him,  to  find  vent  in  broken 
ejaculations. 

"  Baffled  schemer  !  "  he  exclaimed  aloud, 
and  then  his  thoughts  arranged  themselves 
into  words  :  — "  Why  do  those  words  ring 
in  my  ears  ?  They  do  not  apply  to  me  ;  let 
me  but  live  twenty-four  hours,  and  all  the 
schemes  which  I  have  worked  and  woven 
for  twenty-one  long  years,  will  find  their  end 
in  a  grand,  a  final  triumph.  Baffled  schemer  ! 
No, — not  yet,  nor  never !  This  boy  who 
was  to  marry  Frank,  will  fade  away  in  a  few 
hours,  and  make  no  sign ;  and  now  for  the 
Other  child.  I  must  hasten  to  the  house  of 
old  Somers, — his  *  private  secretary '  must  be 
mine  before  daybreak.  The  hour  is  unusual, 
the  son  lies  dead  in  one  room, — the  father  in 
the  other  ;  but  I  must  enter  the  house  at  all 
hazards,  for, — for, — the  only  remaining  child 
of  Gulian  Van  Huyden,  must  be  in  my  power 
before  daybreak." 

And  he  hurried  along  toward  the  head  of 
Broadway,  through  the  silent  city.  Even  in 
the  gloom,  the  agitation  which  possessed 
him,  was  plainly  discernible.  The  hand 
which  held  the  cloak  upon  his  breast  was 
tightly  clenched,  and,  as  he  passed  through 


the  light  of  a  lamp,  you  might  note  his 
compressed  lip,  his  colorless  cheek,  and  eyes 
burning  with  intense  thought.  His  whole 
life  swept  before  him  like  a  panorama.  The 
day  when  the  wife  and  mother  lay  dead  in 
her  palace  home,  while  Gulian,  his  brother, 
clutched  him  with  a  death-grip  as  he 
plunged  into  the  river, — the  years  which  he 
had  gayly  passed  in  Paris,  and  the  horrible 
years  which  he  had  endured  in  the  felon's 
cell, — the  happy  childhood,  and  the  irrevo- 
cable shame  of  his  daughter,  sold  by  her 
own  mother  into  the  arms  of  lust  and  gold, — 
his  duel  with  young  Somers,  whom  he  had 
first  murdered,  and  then  smuggled  his  corpse 
into  his  father's  home, — the  scenes  which  he 
had  this  night  witnessed  in  the  Temple,  be- 
ginning with  his  interview  with  Ninety-One, 
and  ending  in  the  marriagqpof  Frank  and 
Nameless,  and  the  apparition  of  Mary  Ber- 
man, — all  flitted  before  him  like  the  phan- 
torns  of  a  spectral  panorama. 

"  And  the  next  twenty-four  hours  will  de- 
cide all  !  Courage,  brain,  you  have  never 
yet  despaired, — "  he  struck  his  clenched  hand 
against  his  forehead, — "do  not  fail  me  now!" 

Turning  from  Broadway,  as  the  night 
grew  darker,  he  entered  the  street  in  which 
the  house  of  Evelyn  Somers,  Sr.,  was  situated. 
He  was  rapidly  approaching  that  house, — 
cogitating  what  manner  of  excuse  he  should 
make  to  the  servants  for  his  call  at  such  an 
unusual  hour, — when  he  was  startled  by  the 
sound  of  footsteps.  He  paused,  where  a 
street  lamp  flung  its  light  over  the  pavement. 
Shading  his  eyes,  he  beheld  two  figures  ap- 
proaching through  the  gloom.  He  glided 
from  the  light,  and  stationed  himself  against 
]  the  wall,  so  that  he  could  see  the  figures  as 
i  they  passed,  himself  unseen.     The  steps 

(189^ 


190 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


drew  near  and  nearer,  and  presently  from  the 
gloom  the  figures  passed  into  the  light.  A 
man,  Avrapped  in  a  cloak,  with  a  broad  som- 
hrero  drooping  over  his  face,  supported  on 
his  arm  the  form  of  a  youth,  who,  clad  in  a 
closely  buttoned  frock-coat,  trembled  from 
■weakness,  or  from  the  winter's  cold.  The 
face  of  the  man  was  in  shadow,  but  the  light 
shone  full}"  on  the  face  of  the  youth  as  he 
passed  by. 

Tarleton,  with  great  difficulty,  suppressed 
an  ejaculation  and  an  oath. 

For  in  that  boy  who  leaned  tremblingly 
upon  the  arm  of  the  cloaked  man,  he  recog- 
nized the  Private  Secretary  of  the  merchant 
prince ! 

"  Courage,  my  poor  boy," — Tarleton  heard 
the  cloaked  man  utter  these  words,  as  he 
passed  by, — "  it  was  a  happy  impulse  which 
led  me  to  leave  my  carriage,  and  walk  along 
this  street.  I  arrived  just  in  time  to  save 
you  ;  it  is  but  a  step  to  my  carriage,  and  once 
in  my  carriage  yon  will  tell  me  all." 

"  0,  sir,  you  will  protect  me," — the  voice 
of  the  youth  was  tremulous  and  broken, — 
"you  will  protect  me  from  this  man  " 

And  with  these  words  they  passed  from 
the  light  into  the  gloom  again. 

Tarleton  stood  for  a  moment,  as  though  nail- 
ed to  the  wall  against  which  he  leaned.  He 
could  not  believe  the  evidence  of  his  senses. 
That  the  boy,  Gulian  Yan  Huyden,  the  pri- 
Tate  secretary  had  left  the  mansion  of  the 
merchant  prince,  at  this  strange  hour,  and 
was  now  in  the  care  of  a  man  Avhom  he, 
Tarleton,  did  not  know  ;  this  fiict  was  plain 
enough,  but  Tarleton  could  not  believe  it. 
He  stood  as  though  nailed  to  the  wall,  while 
the  footsteps  of  the  retreating  figures  resound- 
ed through  the  stillness.  At  length,  with  a 
violent  effort,  he  recovered  his  presence  of 
mind. 

"  I  will  follow  them  and  reclaim  my  child!" 
he  ejaculated^  and  gathering  his  cloak  across 
the  lower  part  of  his  face,  hurried  once  more 
toward  Broadway. 

But  as  he  discovered  the  distance  between 
himself  and  the  figures  of  the  cloaked  man 
and  the  youth,  his  purpose  failed  him,  he 
knew  not  why^ — he  dared  not  address  the 
man,  much  less  seize  the  boy,  Gulian, — but 
he  still  hung  upon  their  back,  Avatching  their 
©very  movement,  himself  unobserved. 


Meanwhile,  a  thousand  vague  suspicions 
and  fears  flitted  through  his  mind. 

At  the  head  of  Broadway,  in  the  light  of 
a  lamp,  stood  a  carriage,  with  a  coachman  in 
dark  livery  on  the  box.  The  horses,  black 
as  jet,  stood,  beating  the  pavement  with  their 
hoofs,  and  champing  their  bits  impatiently. 

The  unknown  paused  beside  this  carriage, 
still  supporting  the  boy,  Gulian,  on  his  arm, 

"Felix,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  address- 
ing the  coachman,  who  started  up  at  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  "drive  at  once,  and  with 
all  speed,  to  the  Iwuse  yoiuler*' — he  pointed 
to  the  north. 

"  Yes,  my  lord,"  was  the  answer  of  the 
coachman. 

"And  5'ou,  poor  boy,"  continued  the  un- 
known, thus  addressed  as  "  my  lord,"  turning 
to  young  Gulian, — "  enter,  and  be  safe  here- 
after from  all  fear  of  persecution."  He 
opened  the  carriage  door,  and  Gulian  entered, 
followed  by  the  unknown. 

And  the  next  moment  the  sound  of  the 
wheels  was  heard,  and  the  carriage  passing 
Union  Square  and  rolling  away  toward  the 
north. 

Tarleton,  who  had,  unobserved,  beheld  this 
scene,  started  from  the  shadows  and  ap- 
proached the  lamp.  He  clenched  his  teeth 
in  helpless  rage. 

"  I  saw  his  face  for  an  instant,  ere  he  en- 
tered the  carriage,  and  as  his  cloak  fell  aside, 
I  noticed  the  golden  cross  on  his  breast ;  and 
I  neither  like  his  cadaverous  face,  nor  the 
golden  cross.  Why, — "  he  stamped  angrily 
upon  the  pavement, — "  why  do  I  hate  and 
fear  this  man  whom  I  have  never  seen  be- 
fore ? — 'my  lord  ! ' — the  cross  on  his  breast, — 
perchance  a  dignitary  of  the  Catholic  Church  ! 
Ah  !  he  will  wring  the  secret  from  this  weak 
and  superstitious  boy.   All,  all  is  lost !" 

He  was  roused  from  this  fit  of  despair  and 
rage  by  the  sound  of  carnage  wheels.  It 
was  a  hackney  coach,  returning  homeward, 
the  horses  weary,  and  the  driver  lolling 
sleepily  on  the  box. 

Tarleton  darted  forward  and  stopped  the 
horses. 

"Do  you  want  to  earn  five  dollars  for  an 
hour's  ride?"  he  said,  "if  so,  strike  up 
Broadway,  and  follow  a  dark  carriage  drawn 
by  two  black  horses,"  and  he  mounted  the 
box,  and  took  his  seat  beside  the  coachman 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


191 


The  latter  gentleman  waking  up  from  his 
half  slumber,  and  very  wroth  at  the  manner 
in  which  his  horses  had  been  stopped,  and 
his  box  iAvaded,  forthwith  consigned  Tarle- 
ton  to  a  place  which  it  is  not  needful  to 
name,  adding  significantly, — 

"An'  if  yer  don't  git  down,  I'll  mash  yer 
head, — if  I  don't, — "  etc.,  etc. 

"  Pshaw !  don't  you  know  me  ?"  cried 
Tarleton,  lifting  his  cap, — "  follow  the  car- 
riage yonder,  and  I'll  make  it  ten  dollars  for 
half  an  hour's  ride." 

"  Why,  it  is  the  colonel  !"  responded  the 
mollified  hackman. — "  My  team  is  bio  wed, 
colonel,  but  you're  a  brick,  and  here  goes  ! 
Up  Broadway  did  you  say  ? — let  her  rip  !" 

Ho  applied  the  whip  to  his  wearied  horses, 
and  away  they  dashed,  passing  Union  Square, 
and  entering  upper  Broadway. 

"  That  the  carriage,  colonel  ?"  asked  the 
driver,  as  they  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  in 
front  of  them,  "  that  concern  as  looks  blacker 
than  a  stack  of  black  cats  ?" 

"  It  is.  Follow  it.  Do  not  let  the  coach- 
man know  that  we  are  in  pursuit.  Follow 
it  carefully,  and  at  a  proper  distance." 

And  the  hackney  coach  followed  the  car- 
riage of  the  unknown,  until  they  passed  from 
the  shadows  of  the  houses  into  the  open 
country.  Some  four  miles  at  least  from  the 
city  hall,  the  carriage  turned  from  one  of  the 
avenues,  into  a  narrow  lane,  leading  among 
the  rocks,  over  a  hill  and  down  toward  the 
North  Ptiver. 

The  colonel  jumped  from  the  box. 

"Wait  for  me  here, — I'll  not  be  long. 
Drive  a  little  piece  up  the  avenue,  so  that 
you  will  not  be  noticed,  in  case  this  carriage 
should  return.  Wait  for  me,  I  say, — for 
every  hour  I  will  give  you  ten  dollars." 

With  these  words  he  hurried  up  the  hill, 
in  pursuit  of  the  retreating  carriage.  The 
ground  was  frosted  and  broken, — huge  rocks 
blocked  up  the  path  on  either  hand,  and  on 
the  hill-top  stood  a  clump  of  leafless  trees. 
Pausing  beneath  these  trees,  the  colonel  en- 
deavored to  discern  the  carriage  through  the 
darkness,  but  in  vain.  But  he  heard  the 
sound  of  the  wheels  as'  they  rolled  over  the 
hard  ground  in  the  valley  below, 

"  It  cannot  go  far.    This  lane  terminates 
at  the  river,  only  two  or  three  hundred  yards  ^ 
away.  Ah  !  I  remember, — half-way  between  [ 


the  hill  and  the  river  there  is  an  old  man- 
sion which  I  noticed  last  summer,  and  which 
has  not  been  occupied  for  years." 

The  sound  of  the  wheels  suddenly  ceased. 
The  colonel  drew  the  cord  of  his  cloak 
about  his  neck,  so  as  to  permit  his  arms  full 
play.  Then  from  one  pocket  of  his  over- 
coat he  drew  forth  a  revolver,  and  from  the 
other  a  bowie-knife.  Grasping  a  weapon 
firmly  in  each  hand,  he  stealthily  descended 
the  hill,  and  on  tip-toe  approached  the  car- 
riage, which  had  indeed  halted  in  front  of  the 
old  mansion. 

The  mansion,  a  strange  and  incongruous 
structure,  built  of  stone,  and  brick,  and  wood, 
and  enlarged  from  the  original  block  house, 
which  it  had  been  two  hundred  years  before, 
by  the  additions  made  by  five  or  six  genera- 
tions, stood  in  a  garden,  apart  firom  the  road, 
its  roofs  swept  by  the  leafless  branches  of  gi- 
gantic forest-trees.  In  summer,  quaint  and 
incongruous  as  were  the  outlines  of  the  huge 
edifice,  it  put  on  a  beautiful  look,  fc#  it  was 
embowered  in  foliage,  and  its  many  roofs  and 
walls  of  brick,  and  wood  and  stone,  were 
hidden  in  a  garment  of  vines  and  flowers. 
But  now,  in  the  blackness  of  this  drear  win- 
ter daybreak,  it  was  black  and  desolate 
enough.  Not  a  single  light  shed  a  cheerful 
ray,  from  any  of  the  windows. 

Gliding  behind  the  trunk  of  a  sycamore, 
the  colonel  heard  the  voice  of  the  unknown 
man,  as  he  conducted  the  boy,  Gulian,  from 
the  carriage  along  the  garden  walk  toward 
the  hall  door. 

"  Here  you  will  be  safe  from  all  intrusion. 
I  must  return  to  the  city  at  once,  but  I  will 
be  back  early  in  the  morning.  Meanwhile, 
you  can  take  a  quiet  sleep.  You  are  not 
afraid  to  sleep  in  the  old  house,  are  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no, — afraid  of  nothing  but  his 
persecution,"  was  the  answer. 

The  colonel  heard  these  words,  and  watched 
the  figures  of  the  unknown  and  Gulian,  as 
they  passed  from  the  garden  walk  under  the 
shadow  of  the  porch,  and  into  the  hall  door. 

And  then  he  waited, — Ohow  earnestly  and 
with  what  a  tide  of  hopes,  suspicions,  fears! — 
for  the  re-appearance  of  the  unknown  ! 
Five  minutes  passed. 

"The  boy  has  not  had  time  to  confess  the 
secret," — the  thought  almost  rose  to  tlie  col- 
onel's lips. — "  If  this  unknown  man  retuma 


192 


THE  DAWN,  SUNKISE  AND  DAY. 


to  town,  leaving  Gulian  here,  all  will  yet  be 
well." 

The  hall-door  opened  again,  was  locked, 
and  the  form  of  the  unknown,  in  cloak  and 
sombrero,  once  more  appeared  upon  the  gar- 
den walk. 

"  To  town,  Felix,  as  fast  as  you  can  drive. 
I  must  be  back  within  two  hours." 
"  Yes,  my  lord." 

He  entered  the  carriage, — it  turned, — and 
the  horses  dashed  up  the  narrow  road  at  full 
speed. 

"  Two  hours  !"  ejaculated  Tarleton,  as  the 
sound  of  the  wheels  died  away.  "  In  two 
hours,  '  my  lord  !'  you  wall  find  the  nest  rob- 
bed of  its  bird," 

Determined  at  all  hazards  to  rescue  the 
person  of  the  boy,  Gulian,  and  bear  him  from 
the  old  mansion,  he  opened  the  wicket  gate, 
and,  passing  along  the  garden  walk,  ap- 
proached the  silent  mansion.  The  wind  sighed 
mournfully  among  the  leafless  branches,  and 
not  a  smgle  ray  of  light  illumined  the  front 
of  the  gloomy  pile. 

The  colonel  passed  under  the  porch,  and 
tried  the  hall  door  ;  it  was  locked.  With  a 
half-muttered  curse,  he  again  emerged  from 
the  porch,  and  from  the  garden  \valk,  once 
more  surveyed  the  mansion. 

Could  he  believe  his  eyes  ?  From  a 
narrow  w^indow,  in  the  second  story  of  the 
western  wing,  a  ray  of  light  stole  out  upon 
the  gloom — stole  out  from  an  aperture  in  the 
window  curtains — and  trembled  like  a  golden 
thread  along  the  garden  walk. 

"  The  window  is  low, — the  room  is  a  part 
of  the  olden  portion  of  the  mansion, — that 
lattice  W'Ork,  intended  for  the  vines,  will  bear 
my  weight ;  one  blow  at  the  window-sash, 
and  I  am  in  the  chamber  !" 

Thus  reflecting,  the  colonel,  ere  he  began 
to  mount  the  lattice  work,  looked  cautiously 
around  and  listened.  All  was  dark ;  no 
sound  was  heard,  save  the  low  moan  of  the 
"wind  among  the  trees.  Tarleton  placed  the 
revolver  in  one  pocket,  and  buried  the  bowie- 
knife  in  its  sheath.  Then  he  began  cautiously 
to  ascend  the  lattice  work,  along  which,  in 
summer  time,  crept  a  green  and  flowering 
vine  ;  it  creaked  beneath  his  weight,  but  did  - 
not  break, — in  a  moment  he  was  on  a  level 
with  the  narrow  window.  Resting  his  arms 
upon  the  deep  window-sill,  he  placed  his  eye  ! 


to  the  aperture  in  the  curtains,  and  looks 
within. 

He  beheld  a  small  room,  with  low  ceiling, 
and  w^ainscoted  walls ;    a  door,  wliich  evi- 
dently opened  upon  the  corridor  leading  to  j 
the  body  of  the  mansion ;  a  couch,  with  a  I 
canopy  of  faded  tapestry  ;  the  floor  of  dark  j 
w^ood,  uncarpeted,  and  its  once  polished  sur- 
face thick  with  dust ;  a  bureau  of  ebony, 
surmounted  by  an  oval  mirror  in  a  frame  of 
tarnished  gilt.    The  light  stood  upon  the 
bureau  ;  and,  in  front  of  the  light,  an  alabas-  | 
ter  image  of  the  crucified. 

Before  this  image,  with  head  bowed  upon 
his  clasped  hands,  knelt  the  boy,  Gulian. 
The  light  shone  upon  his  glossy  hair,  which 
fell  to  his  shoulders,  and  over  the  outlines 
of  his  graceful  shape.  He  was  evidently 
absorbed  in  voiceless  prayer. 

Altogether,  it  was  a  singular — yes,  a  beau- 
tiful picture.  But  the  Coloilel  had  no  time 
to  waste  on  pictures,  however  beautiful. 

He  placed  his  arm  against  the  sash — it 
yielded — and  the  colonel  sprang  through  the 
window  into  the  room.  l 

Gulian  heard  the  crash,  and  started  up, 
and  beheld  the  colonel  standing  near  him, 
his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  and  his  face 
stamped  with  a  look  of  fiendish  triumph. 

**  Oh,  my  God  !"  he  ejaculated,  and  stood 
as  if  spell-bound  by  terror. 

"  You  see  it  is  all  in  vain,"  said  the  Colo- 
nel, showing  his  white  teeth  in  a  smile. 
"  You  cannot  escaj)e  from  me.  You  must 
do  my  will.  Come,  my  child,  we  must  be 
moving." 

He  placed  Gulian's  cap  upon  his  chesnut 
curls,  and  pointed  to  the  door. 

The  eyes  of  the  poor  youth  were  wild 
with  aff'right.  He  evidently  stood  in  mortal 
terror  of  Tarleton.  His  glance  roved  from 
side  to  side,  and  he  ejaculated — 

"In  his  power  again;  just  as  I  thought 
myself  forever  safe  from  his  persecution!" 

"Answer  me  —  where  did  you  meet  the 
man  who  brought  you  to  this  house  ?" 

As  he  spoke,  Tarleton  seized  the  boy  by  \ 
the  wrist. 

"  In  the  street ;  I  had  fainted  on  the  side- 
walk," was  the  answer,  in  a  tremulous  voice. 

"And  how  came  you  in  the  street  at  such 
an  unusual  hour  ?" 

"  When  you  left  Mr.  Somers'  house,  you 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


193 


threatened  to  return  to-morrow,"  answered 
Gillian,  clasping  his  hands  over  his  breast. 
"  I  was  determined  to  avoid  seeing  you  again, 
at  all  hazards.  I  left  the  house,  and  wan- 
dered forth,  uncertain  whither  to  direct  my 
steps.  Yes — oh  yes !  I  had  one  purpose 
plainly  in  my  mind," — he  smiled,  and  his 
eyes  brightened  up  with  a  strange  light, — "  I 
resolved  to  bond  my  steps  to  the  river." 
"  To  the  river  ?" 

"Yes,  to  the  river,"  answered  the  boy, 
with  a  singular  smile  :  "  for  you  know  that 
if  I  was  drowned,  I  would  be  safe  from  you 
forever." 

"And  you  would  become  a  —  suicide!" 
said  Tarleton,  with  a  sneer ;  "  you,  so  finely 
brought  up  !  Have  you  no  fear  of  the  here- 
after ?" 

Gulian's  pale  face  lighted  with  a  faint 
glow. — "  There  are  some  deeds  which  are 
worse  than  suicide,"  he  answered  quietly,  yet 
with  a  significant  glance.  "  It  was  to  avoid 
the  commission  of  one  of  these  deeds,  that, 
scarcely  an  hour  ago,  I  left  the  house  of  Mr. 
Somers  and  bent  my  steps  to  the  river." 

"And  you  fainted,  and  this  man  came 
across  you  while  you  were  insensible — eh  ? 
Who  is  he  ?  and  what  was  it  that  led  him 
from  his  carriage,  along  the  street  where  he 
found  you  ?" 

"An  impulse,  or  presentiment,  as  he  told 
me,  which  he  could  not  resist,  and  which 
impressed  him  that  he  might  save  the  life 
of  a  fellow-being.  He  left  his  carriage  ;  he 
arrived  before  it  was  too  late.  In  a  little 
while  I  should  have  been  frozen  to  death." 

Again  Tarleton  seized  the  boy  by  the 
wrist ;  and  his  brow  grew  dark,  his  eyes 
fierce  and  threatening. 

"And  you  confessed  the  secret  to  this 
man  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "  Nay,  deny  it  not !" 
He  tightened  his  grasp.  "  You  did  confess — 
did  you  not  ?" 

"Oh,  pity  ! — do  not  harm  me  !"  and  Gu- 
lian  shrunk  before  Tarleton's  gaze.  "I  did 
not  confess  the  secret — indeed  I  did  not." 

"  Swear  you  did  not ,!" 

"I  swear  I  did  not !" 

"I  will  not  believe  you,  unless  you  will 
place  your  hand  upon  this  crucifix,  and  swear 
by  the  Savior,  that  you  did  not  reveal  the 

secret y 

The  boy  placed  his  hand  upon  the  alabas- 


ter image,  and  said  solemnly,  "  By  the  name 
of  the  Savior,  I  swear  that  I  did  not  reveal 
the  secret  of  which  you  speak." 

Tarleton  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"I  breathe  freer!"  he  cried.  "You  are 
sujDerstitious  ;  and,  with  your  hand  upon  an 
image  like  that,  I  know  you  cannot  lie.  The 
secret  is  safe,  and  all  will  yet  be  well.  Come, 
we  must  go." 

"  Oh,  you  do  not  want  me  now  !"  cried 
Gulian,  shrinking  away  from  his  grasp — 
"  noAv  that  you  are  assured  of  the  security 
of  the  secret  f" 

"  Worse  than  ever,  my  boy,"  cried  Tarle- 
ton, with  a  tone  of  mocking  gayety.  "  I  am 
positively  starving  to  death  for  your  company. 
To-day  and  to-morrow  you  must  be  with  me 
all  the  time,  and  never  for  an  instant  quit 
my  sight.    After  that  you  are  free  !" 

The  countenance  of  Gulian,  in  which  a 
masculine  vigor  of  thought  was  tempered  by 
an  almost  woman-like  roundness  of  outline 
and  softness  of  expression,  underwent  a  sud- 
den and  peculiar  change. 

"  I  will  not  go  with  you,"  he  said,  slowly 
and  firmly,  his  eyes  shining  vividly,  while 
his  face  was  unnaturally  pale. 

"  You  will  not  go  with  me  ?"  and  Tarle- 
ton advanced  with  a  scowling  brow — "  We'll 
see,  we'll  see, — " 

"  I  will  not  go  with  you,"  repeated  Gulian. 
"  You  call  me  superstitious.  It  may  be  su- 
perstition which  makes  my  blood  run  cold 
with  loathing,  when  you  are  near  me  ;  or  it 
may  be  some  voiceless  warning  from  the 
dead,  who,  while  in  this  life,  were  deeply 
injured  by  you.  But  it  is  not  supersti- 
tion which  induces  me  to  place  my  hand 
upon  this  crucifix,  and  tell  you,  that  you 
cannot  drag  me  from  it,  save  at  peril  of  your 
life.  Ah,  you  sneer  !  The  house  is  deserted: — 
true.  The  crucifix  of  frail  alabaster: — true. 
But  you  are  fairly  warned.  The  moment 
that  crucifix  breaks,  to  you  is  one  of  perih" 

Tarleton  knew  not  what  to  make  of  the 
expression  and  words  of  the  boy.  At  first 
there  was  something  in  the  look  of  Gulian 
which  touched  him,  against  his  will  ;  but,  as 
the  closing  words  fell  on  his  ear,  he  burst 
into  a  laugh.  "  Come,  child,  we'll  leave  the 
house  by  the  hall  door,"  he  said  ;  and,  as  he 
passed  an  arm  around  Gulian's  waist,  ho 
placed  the  other  hand  upon  the  door  which 


194 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


led  into  the  passage  :  "  Nay,  you  need  not 
cling  to  that  bauble  !  Come  !  I'll  endure 
this  nonsense  no  longer — " 

The  alabaster  image  was  crushed  in  th(^ 
grasp  of  Gulian,  as  he  was  torn  from  it;  and 
at  the  same  instant  the  colonel  opened  the 
door. 

Gulian,  struggling  in  the  grasp  of  Tarle- 
ton,  clapped  his  hands  twice,  and  cried  aloud: 
"Cain!  Cain  1" 

The  next  moment  it  seemed  as  though  a 
crushing  weight  had  bounded,  or  been  hurled, 
against  the  colonel's  back  ;  he  was  dashed  to 
the  floor  ;  he  found  himself  struggling  in 
the  fangs  of  a  huge  dog,  with  short,  shaggy 
hair,  black  as  jet,  short  ears,  and  formidable 
jaws.  As  the  dog  uttered  a  low  growl,  his 
teeth  sank  deep  into  the  back  of  Tarleton's 
neck,  and  Tarleton  uttered  a  groan  of  intol- 
erable agony.  Tarleton  was  dragged  along 
the  floor,  by  the  ferocious  beast,  which  raised 
him  by  the  neck,  and  then  dashed  him  to 
the  floor  again ;  treating  him  as  the  tiger 
treats  the  prey  w^hich  he  is  about  to  strangle 
and  kill. 

Cain  w^as  indeed  a  ferocious  beast.  He 
had  accompanied  the  unknown  over  half  the 
globe ;  and  w^as  obedient  to  his  slightest  sign; 
defending  those  whom  he  wished  defended, 
and  attacking  those  whom  he  wished  at- 
tacked. Before  leaving  the  mansion,  the 
unknown  had  placed  Cain  before  the  door 
of  Gulian's  room,  and  given  Gulian  into  its 
charge.  "Guard  him,  Cain  !  obey  him,  Cain !" 
And,  as  Tarleton  opened  the  door,  at  a  sign 
and  a  word  from  Gulian,  the  dog  proved 
faithful  to  his  master's  bidding.  In  the 
grasp  of  this  formidable  animal,  Tarleton 
now  found  himself  writhing — his  blood 
spurting  over  the  floor,  as  he  was  dragged 
along. 

As  Gulian  beheld  this  scene,  and  heard 
the  cries  of  Tarleton  mingling  with  the  low 
growl  of  the  dog,  his  heart  relented.  He 
forgot  all  that  ^Tarleton  had  made  him 
suffer. 

"  Cain  !  Cain  ! — here,  Cain  !  —  here  !"  he 
cried;  but  in  vain.  Cain  had  tasted  blood. 
His  teeth  twined  deep  in  his  victim's  neck ; 
and  his  jaws  reddened  with  Tarleton's  blooJ; 
ne  did  not  hear  the  voice  of-  Gulian. 

It  was  a  terrible  moment  for  Tarleton. 
U ttering  frightful  imprecations  between  his  j 


how^ls  of  pain,  he  made  a  last  and  desperate 
effort — an  effort  strengthened  by  despair  and 
by  pain,  which  seemed  as  the  pang  of 
death, — he  turned,  even  as  the  teeth  of  the 
dog  were  in  his  neck^  he  clenched  the  infu- 
riated animal  by  the  throat.  Then  took  place 
a  brief  but  horrible  contest,  in  which  the  dog 
and  the  man  rolled  over  each  other,  the  man 
clutching,  as  with  a  death-grasp,  the  throat 
of  the  dog,  and  the  dog  burying  his  teeth  in 
the  man's  shoulder. 

Gulian  could  bear  the  sight  no  longer ;  he 
sank,  half  fainting,  against  the  bureau,  and 
hid  his  eyes  from  the  light. 

Presently,  the  uproar  of  the  combat — the 
growl  of  the  dog,  and  the  cries  of  Tarle- 
ton— were  succeeded  by  a  dead  stillness. 

Gulian  raised  his  eyes. 

Tarleton  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room, 
his  face  and  white  coat  bathed  in  blood — his 
bowie-knife,  also  dripping  with  blood,  held 
aloft  in  his  right  hand.  He  presented  a 
frightful  spectacle.  His  coat  was  rent  over 
the  right  shoulder,  and  his  mangled  flesh, 
was  discernible.  And  that  face,  whose  death- 
like pallor  was  streaked  with  blood,  bore 
an  ex^jression  of  anguish  and  of  madness, 
which  chilled  Gulian's  heart  but  to  be- 
hold. 

At  his  feet  was  stretched  the  huge  carcass 
of  the  dog.  The  gash  across  his  throat,  from 
which  the  blood  was  streaming  over  the 
floor,  had  been  inflicted  by  the  hand  of  the 
colonel,  in  the  extremest  moment  of  his 
despair.  Cain  had  fought  his  last  battle.  As 
Tarleton  shook  the  bloody  knife  over  his 
head,  the  brave  old  dog  uttered  his  last  moan 
and  died. 

"  It  will  not  do,  my  child — it  will  not  do," 
and  Tarleton  burst  into  a  loud  and  unnatural 
laugh.  "  You  must  go  with  me  !  With  me, 
alive  or  dead."    He  rushed  towards  Gulian, 

brandishing  the  knife.    "Oh,  you  d  d 

wretch  !  do  you  know  that  I've  a  notion  to 
cut  you  into  pieces,  limb  by  limb?" 

"  Mercy  !  mercy  !"  shrieked  the  boy,  fall- 
ing on  his  knees,  as  that  face,  dabbled  in 
blood,  and  writhing,  as  with  madness,  in 
ever}^  feature,  ghwereJ  over  him. 

But  Tarleton  did  not  strike.  He  placed 
his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  and  made  a  des- 
perate effort  to  recall  his  shattered  senses. 
Suffering  intolerable  physical  agony,  he  was 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE   AND  DAY. 


195 


yet  firm  in  the  purpose  which  had  led  him 
to  the  old  mansion. 

"  If  I  can  get  this  boy  to  the  carriage,  all 
will  yet  be  well !"  he  muttered.  "  HI  faint 
Boon  from  loss  of  blood  ;  but  not  until  this 
boy  is  in  my  power.  Brain,  do  not  fail  me 
now !" 

Ue  dropped  the  bloody  knife  upon  the 
carcass  of  the  dog ;  and,  taking  a  handker- 
ciiief  from  his  pocket,  he  bound  it  tightly 
around  his  throat.  Then,  lifting  his  cloak 
from  the  floor,  he  wound  it  about  him,  and 
writhed  with  pain,  as  it  touched  the  wound 
on  his  shoulder. 

"Now  will  you  go  with  me  alive,  or 
dead  ?"  He  lifted  the  knife  again,  and  ad- 
vanced to  Gulian.  "  Take  your  choice.  If 
your  choice  is  life," — he  could  not  refrain  a 
cry  of  pain — '*  take  the  light  and  go  on  before 
me 

Trembling  in  every  limb,  his  gaze  riveted 
to  the  face  of  Tarleton,  Gulian  took  the 
light,  and  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  room. 
Tarleton  followed  him  with  measured  step, 
still  clutching  the  knife  in  his  right  hand.  . 

"  On — on  !"  muttered  Tarleton  ;  "  attempt 
to  escape,  and  I  strike,  —  on  — and  he 
reeled  like  a  drunken  man,  and  fell  insensi- 
ble at  Gulian's  feet. 

CHAPTER  II. 

RANDOLPH  AND  HIS  BROTHER. 

The  hour  of  dawn  drew  near,  Ran- 
dolph was  in  his  own  chamber,  seated  by  his 
bed,  watching  the  face  of  the  sleeper,  who 
was  slumbering  there. 

A  singular  look  passed  over  Randolph's 
visage,  as  he  held  the  candle  over  the  sleep- 
er's face, — a  look  hard  to  define  or  analyze, 
for  it  seemed  to  indicate  a  struggle  between 
widely  different  emotions.  There  was  com- 
passion and  revenge,  brotherly  love  and  mor- 
tal hatred  in  that  look.  *' 

For  the  sleeper  was  Harry  Royalton,  of 
Hill  Royal. 

The  candle  burned  near  and  nearer  to  its 
socket, — the  morning  light  began  to  mingle 
with  its  fading  rays, — and  still  Hany  slept 
on,  and  still  Randolph  watched,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  his  brother's  visage,  and  his  own 
face  disturbed  by  opposing  emotions. 

It  was  near  morning  when  Harry  woke. 


"  Hey  !  halloo  !  what's  this  ?"  he  cried, 
starting  up  in  the  bed,  and  surveying  the 
spacious  apartment, — strange  to  him,i^with 
a  vacant  stare.    "  Where  am  I  ?" 

His  gaze  fell  upon  Randolph,  who  was 
seated  by  the  bed. 

"  You  here  ?"  and  his  countenance  fell. — 
"  What  in  the  devil  does  all  this  mean  ?  " 

Randolph  did  not  reply.  There  was  a 
slight  trembling  of  his  nether  lip,  and  his 
eyes  grew  brighter  as  he  fixed  his  gaze  on 
his  brother's  face. 

"  Where's  my  coat  ?  "  cried  Harry,  sur- 
veying his  shirt  sleeves,  "  and  my  cravat," — 
he  passed  his  hands  over  his  muscular  throat, 
— "  and — you, — what  in  the  devil  are  you 
doing  here  ?  " 

Randolph,  still  keeping  his  gaze  on  his 
brother's  face,  said  in  a  low  voice, — "  I  am 
in  my  own  house,  brother." 

"Your  house?"  ejaculated  Harry,  and 
then  burst  into  a  laugh, — come,  now, — 
don't, — that's  too  good." 

"  My  ow^n  house,  to  which  I  brought  3'OU 
some  hours  ago,  after  I  had  rescued  you  from 
the  persons  in  the  cellar  " 

"  Rescued  me  ?  "  and  an  incredulous  smile 
passed  over  Harry's  face  as  he  pulled  at  his 
bushy  whiskers.  "Better  yet, — ha  !  ha  ! — 
You  don't  think  to  stuff  me  with  any  such 
damned  nonsense  ?" 

Randolph  grew  paler,  but  his  eye  flashed 
with  deeper  light. 

"  Brother,  I  did  rescue  you,"  he  said,  in 
the  same  low  voice,  as  he  bent  forward. — 
"  As  w^e  were  about  to  engage  in  conflict,  you 
fell  like  a  dead  man  on  the  floor.  I  took  you 
in  my  arms  ;  I  defended  you  from  the  ne- 
groes who  were  clamorous  for  your  blood ; 
I  bore  you  to  upper  air,  and  I,  brother,  then 
brought  you  in  a  carriage  to  my  home  ;  and 
I  laid  you  oij.  my  bed,  brother ;  and  when 
you  awoke  from  your  swoon, — awoke  with 
the  ravings  of  delirium  on  your  tongue, — I 
soothed  you,  until  you  fell  in  a  sound  sleep. 
This  is  the  simple  truth,  brother." 

Harry  grew  red  in  the  face,  then  pale, — bit 
his  lip, — pulled  his  w-hiskers,  and  then  with- 
out turning  his  head,  regarded  Randolph 
with  a  sidelong  glance.  To  tell  the  simple 
truth,  Harry  did  not  know  w^hat  to  say.  He 
felt  a  sw^elling  of  the  heart,  a  warmth  in  his 
,  veins,  as   though  the  magnetic  gaze  of 


196 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


Eandolph  had  influenced  him  even  against 
his  will. 

"  You  did  all  this  ?  "  —  there  was  a  faint 
tremor  in  his  voice. 

"I  did^  brother," — Randolph's  voice  was 
deep  and  earnest. 

"Why, — why,  —  did  not  you  kill  me, 
when  you  had  me  in  your  power  ?  " 

"  Brother,  the  blood  of  John  Augustus 
Royalton  flows  in  my  veins,  and  it  is  not 
like  a  Royalton  to  strike  a  fallen  foe." 

"  And  you  could  have  put  poison  in  my 
drink,"  hesitated  Harry,  impressed  against 
his  will  by  the  manner  of  his  brother. 

"  I  never  heard  of  a  Royalton  who  became 
a  poisoner." 

"  A  Royalton  f  and  you  call  yourself  a 
Royalton  ? "  said  Harry,  still  regarding  his 
brother  with  a  sidelong  gaze. 

Randolph  bit  his  lip,  and  folded  his  arms 
upon  his  chest,  as  if  to  choke  down  the 
strong  emotions  which  were  struggling  within 
him.    He  did  not  reply. 

**  I  suppose  I  am  your  prisoner  ?  "  asked 
Harry,  intently  regarding  Randolph's  face. 
You  can  keep  me  secluded  until  the  twenty- 
fifth  of  December  has  j)assed.  Is  that  the 
dodge  ?" 

"  Brother,  the  door  is  open,  and  the  way 
is  free,  whenever  you  Avish  to  leave  this 
house,"  was  Randolph's  calm  reply. 

"  Well,  if  I  can  make  you  out,  may  I  be 

 !"  cried  Harry,  and  the  next  moment 

uttered  a  groan  of  agony,  for  his  back  was 
very  painful.  "  Why  did  you  not  take  me 
to  my  hotel  ?"  he  said,  in  a  peevish,  impa- 
tient tone. 

"  You  forget  that  I  did  not  know  the  name 
of  your  hotel,"  replied  Randolph,  "  and  be- 
side, what  place  so  fitting  for  a  sick  man  as 
his  brother's  home  ?" 

Harry  grew  red  in  the  face,  and  then  burst 
into  a  laugh. — "  We've  been  such  good  broth- 
ers to  each  other  !" 

The  thought  which  had  been  working  at 
Randolph's  heart  for  hours,  now  found  utter- 
ance in  words, — 

"  Brother,  0,  brother  !  why  can  we  not 
indeed  be  brothers  ?"  his  eyes  flashed,  his 
voice  was  deep  and  impassioned.  "  Children 
of  one  father,  let  us  forget  the  past ;  let  us 
bury  all  bitter  memories,  all  feelings  of  ha- 
tred,— let  us  forget,  forgive,  and  be  as  broth- 


ers to  each  other.  Harry  Royalton,  my 
brother,  there  is  my  hand." 

He  rose,  —  his  chest  heaving,  his  eyes 
dimmed  by  tears,  —  and  reached  forth  his 
hand. 

Harry,  completely  overwhelmed  by  this 
unexpected  appeal,  reached  forth  his  hand, 
but  drew  it  back  again. 

"  No,"  he  cried,  as  his  face  was  flushed, — 
"not  with  a  nigger."  The  contempt,  the 
scorn,  the  rage  which  convulsed  his  face,  as 
he  said  these  words,  cannot  be  depicted. 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  HUSBAND  AND  THE  PROFLIQATE. 

The  boat  was  upon  the  river,  borne  onward 
over  the  wintery  waves  and  through  the  float- 
ing ice,  by  the  strong  arms  of  two  sturdy 
oarsmen. 

Behind,  like  a  huge  black  wall,  was  the 
city,  a  faint  line  of  light  separating  its  roofs 
from  the  bleak  sky.  Around  were  the 
waves,  loaded  with  piles  of  floating  ice, 
which  crashed  together  with  incessant  up- 
roar ;  and  through  the  gloom  the  boat  drove 
onward,  bearing  one  man,  perchance  two 
men,  to  certain  death. 

Eugene  and  Robert,  muffled  in  their  cloaks, 
sat  side  by  side  on  the  stern  ;  Beverly  and 
his  friend,  the  major,  also  muffled  in  their 
cloaks,  sat  side  by  side  in  the  bow. 

Eugene  had  drawn  his  cloak  over  his  face 
as  if  to  hide  even  from  the  faint  light,  the 
agony  which  was  gnawing  at  his  heart- 
strings. 

"  In  case  anything  should  happen,"  whis- 
pered Robert,  "have  you  any  message  to 
seni  to  her  f" 

"  None,"  was  the  reply,  uttered  in  a  chok- 
ing voice. 

"Damn  her!"  said  Robert,  between  his 
teetK 

Mopiwhile,  in  the  bow  of  the  boat,  Bev- 
erly, shuddering  within  his  thick  cloak,  not 
so  much  from  cold  as  from  a  mental  cause, 
said  to  his  friend,  the  major, — 

"No  way  to  get  out  o' this,  I  suppose, 
major  ?" 

"  None,"  said  the  major. 

"  I'd  give  a  hoi*se  for  a  mouthful  of  good 
brandy  " 

"  Here  it  is,"  and  the  major  drew  a 


THE  DAWN,  SUNKISE  AND  DAY. 


197 


wicker  flask  from  the  Ads  of  his  cloak.  "  1 
always  carry  a  pocket-pistol;  touch  her  light." 

It  may  be  that  Beverly  "  touched  her 
light,"  but  ho  held  the  flask  to  his  mouth  for 
a  long  time,  and  did  not  return  it  to  the  ma- 
jor until  its  contents  were  considerably  dim- 
inished. 

"A  cursed  scrape,"  he  muttered.  "If 
anything  happens,  what  '11  become  of  my 
daughter  ?"  It  seems  he  had  a  motherless 
child, — "  and  then  there's  the  Van  Huyden 
estate.  If  he  wings  me,  all  my  hope  of 
that  is  gone, — of  course  it  is." 

At  length  the  broad  river  was  crossed,  and 
the  oarsmen  ran  the  boat  into  a  sheltered 
cove,  some  three  miles  above  Hoboken. 

The  first  glimpse  of  the  coming  morn  stole 
over  the  broad  river,  the  distant  city,  and  the 
magnificent  bay. 

"Wait  for  us, — you  know  what  I  told 
you  ?"  said  Robert  to  the  oarsmen,  who  were 
stout  fellows,  in  rough  overcoats,  and  tarpau- 
lin hats. 

"Ay,  ay  sir,"  they  responded  in  a  breath. 

"  Major,  you  lead  the  way,"  said  Robert, 
**up  the  heights  we'll  find  a  quiet  place." 

The  Major  took  Beverly  by  the  arm,  and 
began  to  climb  the  steep  ascent,  over  wildly 
scattered  rocks,  and  among  leafless  trees. 

They  were  followed  by  Robert  and  Eugene 
arm  in  arm. 

After  much  difiicult  wayfaring,  they 
reached  the  summit  of  the  heights,  just  in 
time  to  catch  the  first  ray  of  the  rising  sun, 
as  it  shot  upward,  among  the  leaden  clouds 
of  the  eastern  horizon. 

All  at  once  the  steeples  of  the  city  caught 
the  glow,  and  the  distant  day  blushed  scar- 
let and  gold  on  every  wave. 

Among  the  heights, — may  be  some  three 
miles  above  Hoooken, — there  is  a  quiet  nook, 
imbosomed,  in  the  summer  time,  in  foliage, 
and  opening  to  the  south-east,  in  a  view  of 
the  Empire  City,  and  Manhattan  Bay.  A 
place  as  level  as  a  floor,  bounded  on  all  sides 
save  one,  by  oak,  and  chestnut  and  cedar, 
with  great  rocks  piled  like  monuments  of  a 
long  passed  age,  among  the  massive  trunks. 
It  is  green  in  summer  time,  with  a  carpet-like 
sward,  and  then  the  tree  branches  are  woven 
together  by  fragrant  vines  ;  there  are  flowers 
about  the  rocks  and  around  the  roots  of  the 
old  trees, — a  balmy,  drowsy  atmosphere  of 


June  pervades  the  place.  And  looking  to 
the  east,  or  south-east,  you  see  the  broad 
river  dotted  with  snowy  sails,  the  great  city, 
with  its  steeples  glittering  in  the  light,  and 
with  the  calm,  clear,  vast  Heaven  arching 
overhead.  The  Bay  gleams  in  the  distance, 
white  with  sails,  or  shadowed  here  and  there 
by  the  steamer's  cloud  of  smoke,  and  far 
away  Staten  Island  closes  the  horizon  like  a 
wall.  Standing  by  one  of  these  huge  rocks, 
encircled  by  the  trees,  and  steeped  in  the 
quiet  of  the  place,  you  .gaze  upon  the  distant 
city,  like  one  contemplating  a  far  off  battle- 
field, in  which  millions  are  engaged,  and  the 
fate  of  empires  is  the  stake.  A  sadder 
battle-field,  sun  never  shone  upon,  than  the 
Empire  City,  in  which  millions  are  battling 
every  moment  of  the  hour,  and  battling  all 
life  long  for  fame,  for  wealth,  for  bread,  for 
life.  Sometimes  the  quiet  nook  rings  with 
the  laugh  of  happy  children,  who  come  here 
to  stretch  themselves  upon  the  grass,  and 
gather  flowers  among  the  rocks,  and  around 
the  nooks  of  the  grand  old  trees. 

Far  different  is  the  scene  on  this  drear 
winter  morning.  The  trees  are  leafless ; 
they  raise  their  skeleton  arms  against  the 
cold  bleak  sky.  The  rocks,  no  longer  clad 
in  vines  and  flowers,  are  grim  and  bare,  with 
crowns  of  snow  upon  their  summits.  The 
glade  itself,  no  longer  clad  with  velvet-like 
sward,  is  faded  and  brown.  The  rising  sun 
trembles  through  the  leafless  trees,  invests 
the  rocks  with  a  faint  glow  of  rosy  light, 
and  falls  along  the  brown  surface  of  the 
glade,  investing  it  for  a  moment  with  a 
cheerful  gleam. 

And  in  the  light  of  the  rising  smi,  in  sight 
of  river,  city,  and  distant  bay,  two  men 
stand  ready  for  the  work  of  death. 

The  ground  is  measured ;  the  seconds 
stand  apart ;  before  the  fatal  word  is  given, 
the  combatants  survey  each  other. 

Eugene,  with,  bared  head,  stands  on  the 
north,  his  slender  form  enveloped  in  a  closely 
buttoned  frock-coat.  He  is  lividly  pale,  but 
the  hand  which  grasps  the  pistol  does  not 
tremble.  Notwithstanding  the  bitter  cold, 
there  is  moisture  on  his  forehead  ;  the  fire 
which  burns  in  his  eyes,  tells  you  that  his 
emotion  is  anything  but  fear.  One  glance 
toward  the  city, — one  thought  perhaps  of 
other  days, — and  he  is  ready. 


198 


THE  DAWN,  SUNKISE  AND  DAY. 


Opposite,  in  the  south,  his  hat  drawn  over 
his  flaxen  curls,  his  tall  form  enveloped  in  a 
close  fitting  frock-coat,  Beverly  with  an  un- 
certain eye  and  trembling  hand,  is  nerving 
himself  for  the  fatal  moment.  He  is  afraid. 
As  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  face  of  Eu- 
gene, his  heart  dies  within  him.  All  color 
has  forsook  his  usually  florid  face. 

"  Gentlemen,  you  will  fire  when  I  give  the 
w^ord, — "  cries  Major  Barton  from  the  back- 
ground of  withered  shrubbery.  "Are  you 
ready  ?" 

But  at  this  moment  the  voice  of  Beverly 
is  heard — "  Eugene  !  Eugene  !"  he  cries,  and 
starts  forward,  rapidly  diminishing  the  ten 
paces,  which  lie  between  them — "Eugene  ! 
Eugene  !  my  friend — can  I  make  no  apology, 
no  reparation — " 

Both  Robert  and  the  Major,  saw  Eugene's 
face,  as  he  turned  toward  the  seducer.  The 
8un,  which  had  been  obscured  by  a  passing 
cloud,  shone  out  again,  and  shone  full  upon 
the  face  of  Eugene.  The  look  which  stamp- 
ed every  line  of  that  bronzed  visage,  was 
never  forgotten  by  those  who  beheld  it. 
0,  the  withering  scorn  of  the  lip,  the  concen- 
trated hatred  of  the  dark  eyes,  the  utter 
loathing  which  impressed  every  lineament ! 

"Friend!"  he  echoed,  as  for  a  moment  he 
looked  Beverly  in  the  face — and  then  turn- 
ing to  Barton,  he  said  quietly  :  "  Major  take 
your  man  away.  If  he  is  a  coward  as  well 
as  a  scoundrel,  let  us  know  it." 

The  look  appalled  Beverly;  he  receded 
step  by  step,  unable  to  take  his  eyes  from 
Eugene's  face ; — 

"  Be  a  man,  curse  you,"  whispered  Barton 
who  had  glided  to  his  side — "  D'ye  hear  ?" 
and  he  clutched  him  by  the  arm,  with  a 
grasp,  that  made  Beverly  writhe  with  pain — 
"Take  your  place,  and  fire  as  I  give  the  word." 

In  a  moment,  Beverly  was  in  his  place, 
his  right  hand  grasping  his  pistol,  dropped 
by  his  side,  which  was  presented  toward 
Eugene,  who,  ten  paces  off,  stood  in  a  corres- 
ponding position. 

Barton  retired  to  the  background,  taking 
his  place  beside  Robert.  "  Gentlemen,  I  am 
about  to  give  the  word  !"  said  Barton,  and 
then  there  was  a  pause  like  death, — "  One — 
two — three  !  Fire  ! 

They  wheeled  and  fired,  Eugene  with  a 
fixed  and  decided  aim  ;  Beverly  with  eyes 


swimming  in  terror,tand  hand  trembling 
with  fright.  The  smoke  of  the  pistols 
curled  gracefully  through  the  wintery  air. 
Beverly  stumbled  as  he  fired,  and  fell  on 
one  knee ;  Eugene  stood  bolt  upright  for  a 
moment,  the  pistol  in  his  extended  hand, 
and  then  fell  flat  upon  his  face. 

Eugene's  bullet  sank  into  the  cedar  tree, 
directly  behind  where  Beverly's  head  had 
been,  only  a  moment  before.  Beverly  was 
uninjured.  No  doubt  the  false  step  which 
he  had  made  in  wheeling  had  saved  his  life. 

Eugene  lay  flat  upon  his  face,  the  pistol 
still  clutched  in  his  extended  hand. 

The  brother  of  Joanna  rushed  forward 
and  raised  him  to  his  feet, — there  was  a  red 
wound  between  his  eyes, — he  was  dead. 

The  husband  had  been  killed  by  the  se- 
ducer of  his  wife. 

Behold  the  justice  of  the  Law  of  Duel  1 

"  The  damned  fool,"  was  the  commentary 
of  the  phlegmatic  Robert,  as  with  tears 
gushing  from  his  eyes,  he  held  the  body  of 
the  dead  husband,  and  at  the  same  time 
regarded  Beverl}'-,  who  pale  with  fright, 
cringed  against  a  tree, — "  If  he'd  a-taken  my 
advice,  he'd  a-killed  you  like  a  dog,  last 
night.  He'd  a-pitched  you  from  the  third 
story  window, —  he  would,  —  and  mashed 
your  brains  out  against  the  pavement." 

The  sun  came  out  from  behind  a  cloud, 
and  lighted  the  face  of  Eugene  Livingston, 
with  the  red  wound  between  his  fixed  eyeballs. 

CHAPTER  lY. 

ISRAEL  AND  HIS  VICTIM. 

Israel  Yorke  left  the  Temple,  accom- 
panied by  Ninety-One  and  followed  by  the 
eleven.  Israel,  clad  once  more  in  his  every- 
day practical  dress,  with  his  hat  drawn  over 
his  bald  head,  and  his  diminutive  form 
enveloped  in  a  loose  sack  of  dark  cloth, 
looked  like  a  dwarf  beside  the  almost  gigan- 
tic frame  of  Ninety-One.  Yet  Ninety-One, 
with  creditable  politeness,  gave  his  arm  to 
the  Financier,  and  urged  him  onward  in  the 
darkness,  toward  Broadway,  something  in 
the  manner  that  you  may  have  seen  a  very 
willing  boy,  assist  the  progress  of  a  very  un- 
willing dog, — the  boy's  hand  being  attached 
to  one  end  of  a  string,  and  the  dog's  neck 
to  the  other.    And  Ninety-One  cheered 


THE  DAWN,  SUNEISE  AND  DAY. 


199 


Israel  with  various  remarks  of  a  consolatory- 
character,  such  as,  "  go  in  gold  specks  !  let 
her  went  my  darlin'  !  don't  give  it  up  so 
easy  ! — "  and  so-forth. 

"It's  so  dark,  and  I'm  so  devilish  cold," 
whined  Israel,  in  vain  endeawmng  to  keep 
pace  with  the  giant  strides  of  his  huge  com- 
panion,— "Where  the  deuce  are  we  going 
anyhow  ?" 

"  Come  along  feller  sinners,"  said  Ninety- 
One,  looking  over  his  shoulders  at  the  eleven 
who  followed  sturdily  in  the  rear.  The 
eleven  did  not  deign  to  express  themselves 
in  words,  but  manifested  some  portion  of 
their  feelings,  by  bringing  their  clubs  upon 
the  pavement,  with  something  of  the  force 
of  thunder,  and  more  of  the  wickedness  of  a 
suddenly  slammed  door.  "Where  are  we 
leadin'  you  to  ?  To  one  of  yer  tenants, 
Isr'el, — one  of  yer  tenants,  you  pertikler  ex- 
ample of  all  the  christ'in  vartues, — " 

"  To  one  of  my  tenants  !"  echoed  Israel. 

"  To  one  of  yer  tenants,"  repeated  Ninety- 
One,  and  ho  crossed  a  curb  as  he  spoke,  and 
gave  Israel's  arm  a  wrench  which  nearly  tore 
the  arm  from  Israel's  body. — "You  know 
you've  got  to  pay  cash  for  your  bank  notes 
to-day,  an'  you'll  need  all  the  money  you 
can  ral?e  and  scrape.  To-day's  rent  day, — 
isn't  it  ?  Well  we're  goin'  on  a  collectin' 
towe)'  among  yer  tenants.  Aint  we  feller 
sinners  ?" 

He  turned  his  head  over  his  shoulder,  and 
again  the  clubs  thundered  their  applause. 

"  I'll  be  deuced  if  I  can  make  you  out," 
said  Israel  arranging  his  '  specks,'  which  had 
been  displaced  by  one  of  the  eccentric  move- 
ments of  Ninety-One, — and  Israel  felt  very 
much  like  the  man  who,  finding  himself  late 
at  night,  very  unexpectedly  in  the  same 
bed-room  with  a  bear,  desired  exceedingly 
to  get  out  of  the  room,  but  thought  it  no 
more  than  proper  to  be  civil  to  the  bear  until 
he  did  get  out. 

"Don't  you  own  a  four  story  house  in 
 street  ?"  asked  Ninety-One. 

**I  do.  Four  stories, — two  to  four  rooms 
on  ti  floor, — besides  the  cellar  and  the  gar- 
ret,— a  fine  property, — and,  to-day  is  rent 
day—" 

"You  stow  'em  away  like  maggots  in  a 
stale  cheese, — do  you?"  and  Ninety-One 
stopped,  and  regarded  the  little  man  admi- 
13 


ringly, —  added  in  an  under  tone,  "Moses! 
How  I'd  like  to  have  the  picklin'  of  you  !" 

Thus  conversing,  they  entered  Broadway, 
along  which  they  passed  for  some  distance, 
and  at  last  turned  down  a  by-street,  the 
eleven  following  them  closely  all  the  while. 

They  stood  in  front  of  a  huge  edifice,  four 
stories  high,  formerly  the  residence  of  a 
Wall  street  nabob,  but  now  the  abode  of, — 
we  are  afraid  to  say  how  many  families. 
The  basement  was,  of  course,  occupied  as  a 
manufactory  of  New  York  politics, — in  sim- 
ple phrase,  it  was  a  grog-shop  ;  and  although 
the  hour  was  exceedingly  late,  its  door  was 
wide  open,  and  the  sound  of  drunken  voices 
and  the  fragrance  of  bad  rum,  ascended  to- 
gether upon  the  frosty  air.  Save  the  base- 
ment, the  entire  front  of  the  mansion  was 
dark  as  ink  ;  the  poor  wretches  who  bur- 
rowed in  its  many  rooms,  were  doubtless 
sleeping  after  the  toil  of  the  winter's  day. 

"  In  the  fourth  story  you  have  a  tenant 

named  ?"  whispered  Ninety - 

One. 

"  Yes ;  a  poor  devil,"  responded  Israel 
Yorke. 

"  Let's  go  up  an'  see  the  poor  devil,"  said 
Ninety- One,  and  grasping  Israel  firmly  by 
the  arm,  he  passed  through  the  front  door 
and  up  the  narrow  stairway. 

The  eleven  followed  in  silence,  supporting 
Israel  firmly  in  the  rear. 

As  they  reached  the  head  of  the  fourth 
stairway,  Ninety-One  put  forth  his  brawny 
hand,  and, — in  the  darkness, — felt  along  the 
wall. 

"Here's  the  door,"  he  whispered,  "in  a 
minnit  we'll  bust  in  upon  your  tenant  like  a 
thousand  o'  brick." 

Israel  felt  himself  devoured  by  curiosity, 
suspense,  and  fear. 

As  for  the  eleven  gathering  around  Israel 
closely  in  the  darkness,  they  preserved  a  dead 
silence,  only  broken  for  a  moment  by  the  ex- 
clamation of  one  of  their  number, — "  What 
a  treat  it  'ud  be  to  pitch  this  here  cuss  down 
stairs  ! '' 

"Hush,  boys!  hark!"  said  Ninety-One, 
and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  door. 

Before  we  enter  the  door  and  gaze  upon 
the  scene  which  Ninety-One  disclosed  to  the 
gaze  of  Israel  Yorke,  our  history  must  re- 
trace its  steps. 


200 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


It  was  nightfall,  and  the  light  of  the  lamps 
glittering  among  the  leafless  trees  of  the 
Park,  mingled  with  the  last  flush  of  the  de- 
parted day,  and  the  mild,  tremulous  rays  of 
the  first  stars  of  evening.  At  the  corner  of 
Broadway  and  Chambers  street,  two  young 
men  held  each  other  by  the  hand,  as  they 
talked  together.  The  contrast  between  their 
faces  and  general  appearance  was  most  re- 
markable, even  for  this  world  of  contrasts. 
One  tall  in  stature,  with  florid  cheeks,  and 
blue  eyes  glittering  with  life  and  hope,  was 
the  very  picture  of  health.  He  was  dressed 
at  the  top  of  the  fashion.  A  sleekly-brushed 
beaver  sat  jauntily  upon  his  chesnut  curls  ; 
an  overcoat  of  fine  gray  cloth  fitted  closely  to 
his  vigorous  frame,  and  by  its  rolling  collar, 
suffered  his  blue  scarf  and  diamond  pin  to  be 
visible  ;  his  hands  were  gloved,  and  he  car- 
ried a  delicate  cane,  adorned  with  a  head  of 
amber ;  and  his  voice  and  laugh  rung  out  so 
cheerily  upon  the  frosty  air! 

The  other, — alas  !  for  the  contrast, — dress- 
ed in  a  long  overcoat  of  faded  broAvn  cloth, 
resembled  a  living  skeleton.  His  face  was 
terribly  emaciated  ;  his  cheeks  sunken  ;  his 
eyes  hollow.  His  voice  was  low  and  husky. 
As  he  spoke,  his  eyes  lighted  up  like  fire- 
coals,  and  seemed  to  burn  in  his  sallow  and 
withered  face.  His  hair,  black  as  jet,  and 
straight  and  long,  only  made  his  countenance 
seem  more  pale  and  death-like.  He  was 
evidently  in  the  last  stage  of  consumption, 
and  his  dress,  neat  as  it  was,  —  the  faded 
Drown  coat,  and  much-worn  hat  carefully 
brushed,— betokened  poverty,  and  the  sad- 
dest poverty  of  all, — that  which  tries,  and 
vainly,  to  hide  itself  under  a  "decent"  ex- 
terior. 

And  thus  they  met,  at  the  corner  of  Cham- 
bers street  and  Broadway,  Lewis  Harding, 
the  rich  broker  and  man  of  fashion,  and 
John  Martin,  the  poor  artist  and  —  dying 
man.  They  had  been  playmates  and  school- 
fellows in  other  years.  Five  years  ago,  they 
left  the  academy,  in  a  country  town,  to  try 
their  fortunes  in  the  world  ;  both  orphans, 
both  young,  both  full  of  life  and  hope,  and — 
poor.  Harding  had  taken  the  world  as  he 
found  it,  adopted  its  philosophy, — "  Success 
is  the  only  test  of  merit," — and  became  a 
rich  broker  and  a  man  of  fashion.  John 
Martin  had  taken  the  world  as  it  ought  to 


I  have  been, — believed  in  the  goodness  of  man- 
kind, and  in  the  certainty  of  honest  success 
following  honest  labor — of  hand  and  brain, — 
steadily  devoted  to  the  elevation  of  man. 
He  became  an  artist,  and, — we  see  him  be- 
fore us  now. 

"Why,  Jack,  my  dear  fellow,  what  are 
you  doing  out  in  the  cold  air  ?"  said  Har- 
ding, in  his  kindly  voice.  "  You  ought  to 
be  more  careful  of  yourself,  " 

"  I  am  out  in  the  cold  air,  because  I  cannofc 
breathe  freely  in  the  house,"  answered  the 
artist,  with  a  smile  on  his  cadaverous  lips. 

"  But  you  have  no  cough, — you'll  be  bet- 
ter in  spring." 

"  True,  I  have  no  cough,  but  the  doctor 
informed  me  to  day  that  my  right  lung  was 
entirely  gone,  and  my  left  hard  after  it ;  the 
simple  truth  is,  I  am  wasting  to  death  ;  and  I 
hate  the  idea  of  dying  in  bed.  I  want  to  keep 
on  my  feet, — I  want  to  keep  in  the  air, — I 
want  to  die  on  my  feet." 

Harding  had  rajjidly  grown  into  a  man  of  . 
the  world,  but  somehow  the  tears  started 
into  his  eyes. 

"But  you  must  keep  up  your  spirits, 
Jack, — in  the  spring  you  will  be  " 

"In  my  grave,  Harding;  there's  no  use 
of  lying  about  it." 

And  his  eyes  flared  up,  and  a  bitter  smile 
moved  his  lips. 

"0,  how*s  the  wife  and  children?"  said 
Harding,  as  though  anxious  to  change  the 
conversation. 

"  They  are  well,"  said  John,  and  a  singu- 
lar look  passed  over  his  face. 

"And  your  sister  ?" 

"  Eleanor  is  well," — and  the  vivid  bright- 
ness of  his  eyes  was  for  a  moment  vailed  in. 
moisture. 

"  0,  by-the-bye,  I  met  Nelly  the  other 
day,"  said  Harding.  "  Bless  my  soul !  what 
a  handsome  little  girl  she  has  grown  !  It 
was  in  a  store  where  they  sell  embroidered 
work.  I  was  pricing  a  set  of  regalia, — thirty 
dollars  they  said  was  the  price, — and  little 
Nell  had  worked  on  it  about  three  weeks  for 
five  dollars.    Great  world.  Jack  !" 

"  Good  night,  Harding,"  said  the  artist, 
quietly. 

"  But  let  me  accompany  you  home,  " 

"  I'd  rather  you  would  not.    Good  nighty 
Harding." 


THE  DAWiT,  SUNEISE  AND  DAY. 


201 


"  But  God  bless  you,  John,  can't  I  do 
anything  for  you  ?" 

"  Why,  why  after  I  am  dead," — and  the 
words  seemed  to  stick  in  his  throat, — "  after 

I  am  dead, — my  wife, — my  sister,  "  he 

could  say  no  more. 

"  I  swear  that  I  will  protect  them,"  said 
Harding,  warmly.  John  quietly  pressed  his 
hand,  and  turned  his  face  away.  After  a 
moment  they  parted,  Harding  down  Broad- 
way on  his  way  to  the  theater,  and  John  up 
Broadway,  on  his  way  home.  And  Harding 
gazed  after  John  for  a  moment, — **  I'm  glad 
he  didn't  want  to  borrow  money  !  Nell  is 
quite  a  beauty  !" 

Walking  slowly,  and  pausing  every  now 
and  then  to  breathe,  John  gazed  in  the 
bright  shop-windows,  and  into  the  contrasted 
faces  of  the  hurrying  crowd  as  he  passed 
along. 

"  Soon  this  will  be  all  over  for  me,"  he 
muttered,  with  a  husky  laugh.  "I'm  afraid, 
friend  John,  that  you  are  taking  your  last 
walk." 

An  arm  was  gently  thrust  through  his 
own,  and  a  voice  light  and  trilling  as  the 
notes  of  a  bird,  said  quietly, — 

"I'm  so  glad  I've  caught  up  with  you 
John," — and  he  leaned  upon  that  gentle 
arm,  and  turned  to  look  upon  the  face  of 
the  speaker.  It  was  his  sister  Eleanor,  a  very 
pretty  child  of  some  fourteen  years,  dressed 
in  a  faded  cloak,  and  with  a  hood  on  her 
dark  hair.  Her  complexion  was  a  rich 
brown,  tinged  with  red  in  the  cheeks ;  her 
eyes,  brows  and  hair,  all  black  as  midnight. 
And  by  turns,  over  that  face,  in  which  the 
woman  began  to  mingle  with  the  child,  there 
flitted  a  look  of  the  brightest  joyousness,  and 
an  expression  of  the  most  touching  melan- 
choly. 

"  I've  just  been  taking  my  work  home, 
John.  They  paid  me  half  a  dollar  for  what 
I  have  done  this  week,  (and  that,  you  know, 
John,  will  keep  us  in  bread  and  coal  to- 
morrow,) and  0,  I  am  so  glad  you've  got 
eight  dollars  saved  for  the  rent.  I  am  so 
glad !  The  rent  is  due  to-morrow,  and  the 
landlord  is  such  a  hard  man." 

"  Yes,  I  have  eight  dollars,"  John  said, 
and  there  was  an  indefinable  accent  marking 
every  word.  "  Yes,  Nelly,  dear,  I  have  eight 
dollars." 


"John,  do  tell  me,  who  are  those  good 
ladies  who  pass  us  every  moment,  dressed  so 
richly, — all  in  velvet,  and  satin,  and  jewels ; 
who  are  they,  John  ?" 

John  stopped,  —  bent  upon  his  cane, — 
looked  for  a  moment  upon  the  crowd  which 
whirled  past  him, — and  then  into  the  happy, 
innocent  face  of  his  sister.  And  then  his 
shrunken  chest  heaved  with  a  sigh.  "  0 
God  !"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Who  are  they,  John, — do  tell  me, — they 
must  be  very,  0,  ever  so  rich." 

"  Those  handsome  ladies,  dressed  so  gaud- 
ily, Nelly,  are  sisters  and  daughters.  Once 
they  had  brothers  and  fathers  who  protected 
them,  and  now  their  fathers  and  brothers  are 
dead.  The  world  takes  care  of  them  now, 
Nelly." 

The  poor  girl  heard  his  words,  but  did  not 
guess  their  hidden  meaning.  Still  supporting 
her  brother  on  her  arm,  she  continued, — 

"Do  you  know,  John,  that  your  hand- 
some friend,  Mr.  Harding,  met  me  in  the 
store  the  other  day,  and  said  he  took  such 
an  interest  in  me,  and  that  if  I  chose  I 
might  be  dressed  as  rich  and  gayly  as  these 
grand  ladies,  who  pass  us  every  moment." 

John  started  as  though  he  had  trodden 
upon  a  snake.  "  And  only  a  moment  ago 
he  promised  to  protect  her  when  I  am  gone," 
he  muttered, — "  Protection  .'" 

And  thus  they  passed  along  until  turning 
into  a  by-street,  they  came  near  their  home, 
which  was  composed  of  a  single  room,  up 
four  pairs  of  stairs,  in  a  four-storied  edifice. 
At  the  street  door  they  were  met  by  a  young 
woman,  plainly, — meagerly  clad,  but  with  a 
finely-rounded  form,  and  a  countenance,  rich, 
not  only  in  loveliness,  but  in  all  the  goodness 
of  womanly  affection.  It  was  the  artist's 
wife. 

"  0,  John,  I  have  been  so  anxious  about 
you,"  she  said,  and  took  him  by  the  arm  ; 
and  while  Nelly  held  the  other,  she  gently 
led  him  through  the  doorway  and  up  the 
dark  stairs.  "  Why  will  you  go  out  when  it 
is  so  cold  ?" 

"  I  want  air,  Annie,  «?>,"  he  returned  in 
his  hollow  voice, — "  and  I  will  die  on  my 
feet." 

And  the  wife  and  sister  helped  the  dying 
artist  gently  up  the  stairs  ;  gently,  slowly, 
step  by  step,  and  led  him  a?t  last  over  the 


202 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY, 


threshold,  into  that  room  M-hich  was  their 
home. 

About  an  lioiir  afterward,  John  was  seated 
in  an  arm-chair,  in  the  center  of  that  home, 
whose  poverty  was  concealed  as  much  as 
might  be,  by  the  careful  exertions  of  his 
wife  and  sister.  lu  the  arm-chair,  his  death- 
like face  looking  ghastly  in  the  candle- 
light,— his  wife,  a  woman  of  blonde  counte- 
nance, blue  eyes,  and  chesnut-hair,  on  one 
side  ;  his  sister,  with  her  dark  hair,  and  clear, 
deep  eyes,  on  the  other  ;  each  holding  a  hand 
of  the  husband  and  the  brother.  A  boy  of 
four  years,  sat  on  a  stool,  looking  up  quietly 
with  his  big  eyes  into  his  father's  face  ;  and 
near,  a  little  girl  of  three  years,  who  took 
her  brother  by  the  hand,  and  also  looked  in 
the  face  of  the  dying  artist.  Very  beautiful 
children  ;  plainly  clad,  it  is  tme,  but  beauti- 
ful ;  the  girl  with  light  hair  and  blue  eyes, 
reflecting  the  mother,  while  the  boy,  dark- 
haired  and  black-eyed,  was  the  image  of  the 
father. 

The  table,  spread  with  the  remains  of  the 
scanty  meal,  stood  near ;  the  grate  was  filled 
with  lighted  coals ;  a  bed  wuth  a  carefully 
patched  coverlet  stood  in  one  corner  ;  be- 
tween the  two  windows  was  placed  an  old- 
fashioned  bureau  ;  and  two  pictures  adorned 
the  neatly  whitewashed  walls. 

Such  was  the  picture,  and  such  the  artist's 
home. 

The  stillness  which  had  prevailed  since 
supper,  was  at  length  broken  by  the  voice  of 
John. 

"Annie,  I'll  leave  you  soon,"  he  said,  qui- 
etly, and  his  eyes  lighted  up. — "  0,  wouldn't 
it  be  a  good  thing  if  we  could  all  die  togeth- 
er !  To  die,  I  do  not  fear,  but  to  leave  you 
all, — and  in  such  a  world  !  0,  my  God  ! 
such  a  world  !" 

Annie  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
rested  her  hands  against  the  arm  of  the  chair. 
Nelly,  her  large  eyes  brimful  of  tears,  quietly 
put  his  hand  to  her  lips.  And  the  little  boy, 
in  his  childish  way,  asked  what  "  to  die " 
meant. 

"Bring  me  that  picture,  Nelly," — he 
pointed  to  a  picture  on  the  wall.  She  went 
and  brought  it  quietly.  "Now  let  down  the 
window  a  little,  for  I  feel  the  want  of  air, 
and  come  and  sit  by  me  again." 

He  took  the  picture  and  gazed  upon  it 


earnestly  and  long.  It  was  a  picture  of  him- 
self, in  the  prime  of  young  manhood,  the 
cheeks  rounded,  the  eyes  full  of  hope,  the 
brow,  shaded  by  glossy  black  hair,  stamped 
,with  genius.  A  picture  taken  only  sixteen 
months  before. 

"Only  sixteen  months  ago,  Nelly,"  he 
said.  Only  sixteen  months  ago,  Annie ;  and 
now — well,  there's  a  crayon  sketch  on  the 
bureau,  which  I  took  of  myself  the  other 
day,  as  I  looked  in  the  glass.  Bring  it, 
Nelly." 

His  sister  brought  the  crayon  sketch  ;  and, 
with  a  sad  smile,  he  held  it  beside  the  other 
picture.  It  was  all  too  faithful.  His  promi- 
nent cheek  bones,  hollow  cheeks,  colorless 
lips,  and  sunken  eyes,  all  were  copied  there ; 
only  the  deathly  fire  of  the  eyes  was 
lacking. 

"A  sad  contrast,  isn't  it,  Annie  ?  When 
this  picture  was  taken,  sixteen  months  ago, 
we  were  all  doing  well.  My  pictures  sold  ; 
some  lithographs  which  I  executed,  met 
also  with  ready  sale.  I  had  as  much  as  I 
could  do,  and  everything  was  bright  before 
me.  I  even  thought  of  a  tour  to  Italy ! 
Don't  you  remember  our  nice  little  cottage 
out  in  the  country,  Nell  ?  But  I  was  taken 
sick — sick  ; — I  couldn't  work  any  longer. 
Our  money  was  soon  spent ;  and  you,  Annie, 
made  shirts ;  and  you,  Nelly,  you  embroi- 
dered ;  and  that  kept  us  thus  far — and — ," 
he  stopped,  and  gazed'upon  his  wife  and  sis- 
ter, who  were  weeping  silently :  and  then 
upon  his  children.  "And  now  I  must  go 
and  leave  you  in  this  world. — Oh,  my  God  ! 
such  a  world  !" 

"Don't  think  of  us,  John,"  said  his  wife. 
"  If  you  could  only  live, — " 

"  Oh,  you  will — you  will  get  better,  as  the 
spring  comes  on,"  exclaimed  Nelly ;  "  and 
we'll  go  into  the  country,  on  the  first  sunny 
day,  and  gather  flowers  there." 

John  drew  forth  from  his  vest  pocket  cer- 
tain pieces  of  paper,  which  he  spread  forth 
upon  his  knee.  Bank  notes,  each  marked 
with  the  figure  2,  and  signed  by  the  name 
of  Israel  Yorke,  (a  prominent  banker  of  the 
bogus  stamp,)  in  a  bold  hand.  There  were 
four  in  all. 

"  This  is  the  eight  dollars,  Annie,  which  1 
saved  to  pay  our  rent,"  said  the  artist. 
The  wife  and  sister  gazed  upon  the  bank 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


203 


notes  earnestly — for  those  bank  notes  were 
their  last  hope.  Those  bank  notes  were 
**rent  money;''  and  of  aft  money  on  the 
earth  of  God,  none  is  so  bitterly  earned  by 
Poverty,  nor  so  pitilessly  torn  frona  its  grasp 
by  the  hand  of  Avarice,  as  "  rent  money." 

"Well, — well;" — and  John  paused,  as  if 
the  words  choked  him.  "These  notes  are 
not  worth  one  penny.  All  of  Israel  Yorke's 
banks  broke  to-day." 

There  was  not  a  word  spoken  for  five 
minutes,  or  more.  This  ncAvs  went  like  an 
ice-bolt  through  the  hearts  of  the  wife  and 
Bister. 

"And  to-morrow  we'll  be  put  into  the 
street  by  this  same  Israel  Yorke,  who  is  also 
our  landlord  ;"  said  John,  breaking  the  long 
pause.  "Put  the  window  a  little  lower, 
Nelly — it  feels  close — I  want  air." 

Nelly  obeyed  ;  and  resumed  her  seat  at 
her  brother's  face,  which  now  glowed  on  the 
cheeks  and  shone  in  the  eyes  with  an  ex- 
pression which  she  could  not  define. 

"  Oh,  wouldn't  it  be  good,  Annie — would 
not  it  be  glorious,  Nelly — if  I  could  gather 
you  all  up  in  my  arms  and  take  you  with 
me,  whither  I  am  going  ?"  he  said,  with  a 
sort  of  rapture,  looking  from  his  children  to 
his  wife  and  sister.  And  then,  in  a  gentler 
tone  :  "  Kneel  down,  Nelly,  and  say  a  prayer, 
and  ask  God  to  forgive  us  all  our  sins — alJ^ 
remember, — and  to  smooth  the  way  for  us,  so 
that  we  may  all  go  to  Him." 

Neither  Nelly  nor  Annie  remarked  the 
singular  emphasis  which  accompanied  these 
words. 

Nelly  knelt  in  their  midst,  and  prayed. 

As  she  uttered  that  simple  and  child-like 
prayer,  John  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  face, 
and  muttered,  "  And  so  he  took  a  great  in- 
terest in  you,  and  would  dress  you  gayly, 
would  he  ?" 

Then  he  said,  aloud,  in  a  kind  of  wild  and 
wandering  way — "Now  we've  had  our  last 
supper,  and  our  last  prayer.  It  will  soon  be 
time  for  us  to  go.  Call  me,  love,  in  time  for 
the  cars.'? 

He  paused,  and  raised  his  hand  to  his 
forehead, — 

"Don't  cry,  Annie;  my  mind  wanders  a 
little—  that's  all.  I  want  rest.  I'll  take  a 
Jittle  Sleep  in  the  chair,  and  you  and  Nelly, 
and  the  children,  lay  down  in  the  bed.  And 


let  me  kiss  the  children,  and  do  you  all  kiss 
me — " 

The  young  mother  lifted  the  little  boy 
and  girl,  and  they  pressed  their  kiss  upon  the 
lips  of  the  dying  man.  Then  the  wife  and 
the  sister ;  their  tears  mingling  on  his  face, 
as  their  lips  were  pressed  by  turns  to  his  lips 
and  brow. 

"  Come,  Nelly,"  whispered  the  wife,  "we'll 
lay  down,  but  we  will  not  sleep.  He  will 
take  a  little  rest  if  he  thinks  we  are 
sleeping. 

Presently  the  sister  and  the  wife,  with  the 
children  near  them,  were  resting  on  the  bed, 
their  hands  silently  joined.  They  conversed 
in  low  tones,  while  the  children  fell  gently 
asleep.  But  gradually  their  conversatioii 
died  away  in  inarticulate  whispers;  and  they 
also  slept. 

And  the  artist  —  did  he  sleep  ?  By  no 
means.  Sitting  erect  in  his  arm-chair,  his 
back  toward  the  bed,  and  his  eyes  every 
instant  glittering  bright  and  brighter,  he 
listened  intently  to  the  low  whispers  of  his 
wife  and  sister.  "At  last  they  sleep  1"  he 
cried,  as  the  sound  of  their  calm,  regular 
breathing  struck  his  ears.  "  They  sleep  — 
they  sleep  !  They  sleep — wife,  sister,  chil- 
dren ;  Annie,  Nelly,  little  J ohn,  and  little 
Annie, — they  all  sleep." 

And  he  burst  into  tears. 

But  his  death-stricken  face  was  radiant 
through  his  tears: — radiant  with  intense  joy. 

John  sat  silently  contemplating  a  small 
image  of  white  marble,  which  he  had  taken 
from  one  of  the  drawers  of  the  bureau.  It 
represented  the  Master  on  the  cross. 

"Better  go  to  God,  and  trust  him,  than 
trust  to  the  mercy  of  man,"  he  frequently 
murmured. 

After  much  silent  thought  he  rose,  and,  from 
beneath  the  bureau  drew  forth  two  objects 
into  the  light  —  a  sack  and  a  small  plaster 
furnace.  He  placed  the  furnace  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  floor,  and  half  filled  it  with  lighted 
coals  from  the  grate.  Then  he  poured  the 
contents  of  the  sack  upon  the  burning  coals; 
his  hands  trembling,  and  his  eyes,  fiery  as 
they  were,  suddenly  dimmed  by  moisture. 

"  Charcoal,  good  charcoal — such  a  bless- 
ing to  the  poor !  Nelly  didn't  know  what 
a  blessing  it  was,  when  I  sent  her  for  it  this 
afternoon  —  that  is,  yesterday  afternoon.  It 


20i 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


takes  fire — it  burns — such  a  mild,  rich  blue 
flame  !  Opium  and  charcoal  are  the  poor 
man's  best  friends.  They  cost  so  little,  and 
they  save  one  from  so  much," — as  he  knelt 
on  the  floor,  he  cast  his  gaze  over  his  shoul- 
der toward  the  bed — "  so  very  much  !  They 
will  save  us  all  from  so  much  !" 

Nelly  murmured  in  her  sleep,  and  rose  in 
bed,  and,  opening  her  eyes,  gazed  at  her 
brother,  kneeling  by  the  lighted  furnace,  with 
a  wild  dreamy  stare.  Then  she  lay  down 
and  slept  again. 

The  charcoal  burned  brightly,  its  pale 
blue  flame  casting  a  spectral  glow  over  the 
face  of  the  kneeling  man,  so  haggard  and 
death-stricken.  The  noxious  gas  began  to 
fill  the  room.  John  rose  and  went,  with 
unsteady  steps  to  the  window,  and  eagerly 
inhaled  the  fresh  air.  Resting  his  arms  upon 
the  sash,  he  felt  the  cold  air  upon  his  cheek, 
and  looked  out  and  upward, — there  was  the 
dark  blue  sky  set  with  stars. 

"  In  which  of  them,  I  wonder,  will  we  all 
meet  again  ?"  he  said,  in  a  wandering  way. 
Then  he  tottered  from  the  window  to  the 
bed.  The  air  was  stifling.  He  breathed  only 
in  gasps. 

By  the  bed  again,  gazing  upon  them  all, — 
wife,  sister,  children, — so  beautiful  in  their 
slumber. 

And  they  began  to  move  restlessly  in  their 
sleep,  and  mutter  half-coherent  words,  and— 
"In  the  spring  time,  John,  we'll  gather 
flowers,"  said  Nelly  ;  "  You'll  be  better  soon, 
John,"  whispered  the  wife  ;  and  all  was  still 
again. 

Back  to  the  window,  with  unsteady  steps, 
to  inhale  another  mouthful  of  fresh  air — to 
take  another  look  at  the  cold,  cold  winter 
stars. 

Brighter  bums  the  charcoal ;  the  pale  blue 
flame  hovers  there,  in  the  center  of  the  room 
like  an  infernal  halo.  And  there  is  Death 
in  the  air. 

Breathing  in  gasps,  John  tottered  from  the 
window  again.  He  took  the  image  in  one 
hand,  the  candle  in  the  other ;  and  thus,  on 
tip-toe,  he  approached  the  bed. 

A  very  beautiful  sight.  Little  John  and 
little  Annie  sleeping  side  by  side,  a  glow 
upon  their  cheeks, — Nelly  and  Annie  sleep- 
ing hand  joined  in  hand  ;  their  beautiful  faces 
invested  with  a  smile  that  was  all  quietness 


and  peace.  They  did  not  murmur  in  their 
sleep  this  time. 

John's  eyes  glared  strangely  as  he  stood 
gazing  upon  them.  "And  did  you  think, 
Annie,  he  said  softly,  putting  his  hand  upon 
her  head,  "  that  I'd  leave  you  in  this  world, 
to  work  and  to  slave,  and  to  rear  our  chil- 
dren up  to  work  and  to  slave,  and  eat  the 
bitter  bread  of  poverty  ?  And  you,  Nelly, 
did  you  think  I'd  leave  you  to  slave  here, 
until  your  soul  was  sick ;  and  then,  some 
da}',  when  work  failed,  and  starvation  looked 
in  at  the  window,  to  sell  yourself  to  some 
rich  scoundrel  for  bread  ?  No,  wife — no  sis- 
ter— no,  children  :  I  have  gathered  you  up  in 
my  arms,  and  we're  all  going  together  /" 

He  kissed  them  one  by  one,  and  then  tot- 
tered back  toward  the  lighted  furnace — 
toward  his  chair — the  light  which  he  held, 
shining  fully  over  his  withered  face  and 
flaming  eyes.  In  one  hand  he  still  grasped 
the  marble  image.  He  had  gained  half  the 
distance  to  his  chair,  when  the  door  opened. 
A  man  of  middle  age,  clad  in  sober  black, 
his  hair  gray,  and  his  hooked  nose  sup- 
porting gold  spectacles,  appeared  on  the 
threshold. 

"  Ah,  Doctor,  is  that  you  ?"  cried  John, 
"I  thought  it  was  the  landlord;  —  you've 
come  too  late.  Doctor,  too  late." 

"  Too  late  ?  What  mean  you,  Mr.  Mar- 
tin ?"  said  the  doctor,  advancing  into  the 
room — but  starting  back  again,  as  he  encoun- 
tered the  poisoned  air. 

**  Too  late — too  late  !"  cried  J ohn,  the  can- 
dle trembling  in  his  unsteady  grasp,  as  he 
raised  his  skeleton-like  form  to  its  full 
height — "  We're  all  cured, — " 

"Cured?  What  mean  you?  How  cured?" 

"  Cured  of — life  !"  said  John  ;  and,  step- 
ping quickly  forward,  he  fell  at  the  doctor's 
feet. 

The  doctor  seized  the  light  as  he  fell,  and 
attempted  to  raise  him  from  the  floor, — but 
John  was  dead  in  his  arms. 


Our  history  now  returns  to  Israel  Yorke, 
whom,  with  Ninety-One  and  the  eleven,  we 
left  waiting  in  the  dark,  outside  the  artist's 
door. 

"  Hush,  boys  !  hush  !"  whispered  Ninety 
One,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  latcb 
"Enter,  Isr'el,  and  talk  to  yer  tenant." 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


205 


The  door  opened,  and  Israel  entered,  fol- 
lowed by  Ninety-One  and  the  eleven,  all  of 
whom  preserved  a  dead  stillness. 

A  single  light  was  burning  dimly  in  the 
artist's  humble  room.  It  cast  its  rays  over 
the  humble  details  of  the  place, — over  the 
bed,  which  was  covered  by  a  white  sheet. 
The  place  was  deathly  still. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?"  cried  Israel. 
"  There  is  no  one  here."  Ninety-One  took 
the  light  from  the  table,  and  led  Israel 
silently  to  the  bed.  The  eleven  gathered 
round  in  silence  ;  you  could  hear  their 
hard  breathing  through  the  dead  stillness  of 
the  room.  Ninety-One  lifted  the  sheet, 
slowly;  his  harsh  features  quivering  in  every 
fiber. 

"  That's  what  it  means,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

They  were  there,  side  by  side ;  the  hus- 
band and  the  wife,  the  sister  and  the 
children — there,  cold  and  dead.  The  light, 
as  it  fell  upon  them,  revealed  the  wasted 
face  of  the  artist,  his  closed  eyelids,  sunken 
far  in  their  sockets,  his  dark  hair  glued  to  her 
forehead  by  the  moisture  of  death  ;  and  the 
face  of  his  young  wife,  with  her  fair  cheek 
and  sunny  hair  ;  and  the  sad,  beautiful  face 
of  his  sister,  whose  dark  hair  lay  loosely 
upon  her  neck,  while  the  long  fringes  of  her 
eyelashes  rested  darkly  upon  her  cheek. 
There  was  a  look  of  anguish  upon  the  face 
of  John,  as  though  Poverty  had  struck  its 
iron  seal  upon  him  as  he  died  ;  but  the  faces 
of  Annie  and  Nelly  were  calm,  smiling — 
very  full  of  peace.  The  little  children — the 
dark-haired  boy,  and  bright-haired  girl — 
slept  quietly,  their  hands  clasped  and  their 
cheeks  laid  close  together.  The  poor  artist, 
in  the  last  wild  hour  of  his  life,  had  indeed 
gathered  them  up  in  his  arms  and  taken  them 
with  him.    They  had  all  gone  together. 

The  fui'nace,  with  the  fire  put  out,  still 
remained  in  the  center  of  the  room. 

Such  was  the  scene  which  the  light  dis- 
closed ;  a  scene  incredible  only  to  those  who, 
unfamiliar  with  the  actual  of  the  large 
city,  do  not  know  that  all  the  boasted  tri- 
umphs of  our  modern  civilization  but  mise- 
rably compensate  for  the  poverty  which  it 
lias  created,  and  which  stalks  side  by  side 
with  it,  at  every  step  of  its  progress,  like  a 
skeleton  beside  a  painted  harlot ; — a  poverty 
which  gives  to  the  phrase,  "  /  am  poor  a 


despair  unknown  even  in  the  darkest  ages 
of  the  most  barbarous  past, 

"They  are  asleep, — asleep,  certainly," 
cried  Israel,  falling  back,  "they  can't  be 
dead." 

The  truth  is,  that  Israel  felt  exceedingly 
uncomfortable. 

"They  aint  asleep,  —  they  are  dead," 
hoarsely  replied  Ninety-One,  and  he  grasped 
Israel  fiercely  by  the  wrist.  "  They  are  dead, 
you  dog.  Look  thar !  That  man  owed  you 
eight  dollars  for  rent ;  he  know'd  if  he  didn't 
pay  you  this  mornin'  he'd  be  pitched  into 
the  street,  dyin'  as  he  was,  with  wife  and 
children  and  sister  at  his  heels.  But  he'd 
saved  eight  dollars,  Israel,  an'  last  night  he 
crawled  out  to  take  a  walk,  an'  found  that 
his  eight  dollars  was  so  much  trash — found 
out  that  yer  banks  had  broke,  an'  his  eight 
dollars  in  yer  bank  notes,  was  wuss  than, 
nothin'.  An'  from  yer  bankin'  house  he 
went  to  a  drug  store,  an'  from  a  friend  he  got 
a  quick  an'  quiet  p'ison.  He  came  home ; 
he  put  it  in  the  coffee,  slyly  ;  they  all  drank 
of  it,  an'  slep';  an'  then  he  filled  the  furnace 
with  charcoal  an'  lighted  it,  an'  then  they 
slep'  all  the  better, — an'  there  they  air !  out 
o'  yer  clutches,  dog — out  o'  yer  fangs,  hell- 
hound,— gone  safe  to  kingdom  come  1" 

And  he  clutched  Israel's  wrist  until  the 
little  man  groaned  with  pain. 

"  But  how  do  you  know  he  poisoned  him- 
self and  these  ?"  faltered  Israel. 

"  He  left  a  scrap  o'  paper  in  which  he  told 
about  it  an'  the  reason  for  doin'  it.  The 
doctor  who  came  in  when  it  was  too  late, 
saw  the  charcoal  burnin',  an'  found  the  p'ison 
at  the  bottom  of  the  cups.  An'  this  man," 
he  pointed  to  one  of  the  eleven,  a  sturdy 
fellow  with  a  frank,  honest  face,  "this  man 
an'  his  wife  live  in  the  next  room.  He  was 
out  last  evenin',  but  she  was  in,  an'  she  heard 
poor  Martin  ravin'  about  you  an'  his  eight 
dollars,  an'  his  wife,  an'  sister,  an'  children, 
an'  starvation,  death,  an'  the  cold  dark  street. 
She  heered  him,  I  say,  but  didn't  suspec* 
there  was  p'ison  in  the  case  until  the  doctor 
called  her  in,  an'  then  it  was  too  late." 

"  But  how  did  you  know  of  all  this  ? 
What  have  you  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"You  see  the  doctor  went  an'  told  the 
JUDGE,  who  has  just  been  tryin'  you, — told 
him  hours  ago,  you  mind, — an'  the  judge 


206 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


sent  me  here  with  you,  in  order  to  show  you 
some  of  yer  work.  How  d'ye  like  it  Isr'el  ?" 

Ninety-One's  features  were  harsh  and  scar- 
red, but  now  they  quivered  with  an  almost 
child-like  emotion.  With  his  brawny  hand 
he  pointed  to  the  bodies  of  the  dead, — 

"  Thar's  eight  dollars  worth  o'  yer  notcs^ 
Isr'el,"  he  said.  *'  Thar's  Chow  Bunk,  Muddy 
Run,  an'  Tarrapin  Holler!  Look  at  'em! 
Don't  you  think  that  some  day  God  Al- 
mighty will  ax  you  to  change  them  notes  ?" 

Andlsrael  shrank  back  appalled  from  the 
bed.  Ninety-One  clutched  his  wrist  with  a 
firmer  grasp  ;  the  eleven  gathered  closely  in 
his  rear,  their  ominous  murmur  growing 
more  distinct ;  and  the  light,  held  in  the 
convict's  hand,  shed  its  calm  rays  over  the 
faces  of  the  dead  family. 

This  death-scene  in  the  artist's  home,  calls 
up  certain  thoughts. 

Poverty !  Did  you  ever  think  of  the  full 
meaning  of  that  word  ?  The  curse  of  pover- 
ty is  the  cowardice  which  it  breeds,  coward- 
ice of  body  and  soul.  Many  a  man  who 
would  in  full  possession  of  his  faculties, 
pour  out  his  life-blood  for  a  friend,  or  even 
for  a  stranger,  will,  when  it  becomes  a  con- 
test for  a  crust  of  bread, — for  the  last  means 
of  a  bare  subsistence, — steal  that  crust  from 
the  very  lips  of  his  starving  friend,  and 
would,  were  it  possible,  drain  the  last  life- 
drop  in  the  veins  of  another,  in  order  to 
keep  life  in  his  own  wretched  carcass.  The 
savage,  starving  in  the  snow,  in  the  center 
of  his  desolate  prairie,  knows  nothing  of  the 
poverty  of  the  civilized  savage,  much  less  of 
that  poverty,  which  takes  the  man  or  woman 
of  refined  education,  and  kills  every  noble 
faculty  of  the  soul,  before  it  does  its  last  work 
on  the  body.  Poverty  in  the  city,  is  not 
mere  want  of  bread,  but  it  is  the  lack  of  the 
means  to  supply  innumerable  wants,  created 
by  civilization, — and  that  lark  is  slow  moral 
and  physical  death.  Talk  of  the  bravery  of 
the  hero,  who,  on  the  battle-field  stands  up 
to  be  shot  at,  with  the  chance  of  glory,  on 
the  one  hand,  and  a  quick  death  on  the 
other !  How  will  his  heroism  compare  with 
that  brave  man,  who  in  the  large  city,  year 
after  year,  and  day  by  day,  expends  the  very 
life-strings  of  his  soul,  in  battling  against  the  | 
fangs  of  want,  in  keeping  some  roof-shelter^ 
over  his  wife  and  children,  or  those  who  arc  ] 


as  dependent  upon  hira  as  wife  and  children? 
Proud  lady,  sitting  on  your  sofa,  in  your 
luxurious  parlor,  you  regard  with  a  quiet 
sneer,  that  paragraph  in  the  paper  (you  hold 
it  in  your  hand),  which  tells  how  a  virtuous 
girl,  sold  her  person  into  the  grasp  of 
wealthy  lust  for — bread  !  You  sneer, — virtue, 
refined  education,  beauty,  innocence,  chastity, 
all  gone  ;to  the  devil  for  a — bit  of  bread ! 
Sneer  on !  but  were  you  to  try  the  experi- 
ment of  living  two  days  without — not  your 
carriage  and  opera-box, — but  without  bread 
or  fire  in  the  dead  of  winter,  working  mean- 
while at  your  needle,  with  half-frozen  fin- 
gers for  just  sixteen  pennies  per  day,  you 
would,  I  am  afraid,  think  difi"erently  of  the 
matter.  Instead  of  two  days,  read  two 
years,  and  let  your  trial  be  one  of  perpetual 
work  and  want,  that  never  for  a  moment 
cease  to  bite, — I  am  afraid,  beautiful  one, 
were  this  your  case,  you  would  sometimes 
find  yourself  thinking  of  a  comfortable  life, 
and  a  bed  of  down,  purchased  by  the  sale  of 
your  body,  and  the  damnation  of  your  soul. 
And  you,  friend,  now  from  the  quiet  of  some 
country  village,  railing  bravely  against  south- 
ern slavery,  and  finding  no  word  bitter 
enough  to  express  your  hatred  of  the  slave 
market,  in  which  black  men  and  black  wo- 
men are  sold — ^just  look  a  moment  from  the 
window  of  your  quiet  home,  and  behold 
yonder  huge  building,  blazing  out  upon  the 
night  from  its  hundred  windows.  That  is  a 
factory.  Yes.  Have  you  no  pity  for  the 
white  men,  (nearer  to  you  in  equality  of 
organization  certainly  than  black  men,)  who 
are  chained  in  hopeless  slavery,  to  the  iron 
wheels  of  yonder  factory's  machinery  ?  HavA 
you  no  thought  of  the  white  woman,  (love- 
lier to  look  upon  certainly  than  black  women, 
and  in  color,  in  organization,  in  education* 
resembling  very  much  your  own  wife,  sister, 
mother,)  who  very  often  are  driven  by  want, 
from  yonder  factory  to  the  grave,  or  to  the — 
brothels  of  New  York  ?  You  mourn  over 
black  children,  sold  at  the  slave  block, — 
have  you  no  tear  for  white  children,  who  in 
yonder  factory,  are  deprived  of  education, 
converted  into  mere  working  machines  (with- 
out one  tithe  of  the  food  and  comfort  of  the 
black  slave),  and  transformed  into  precocious 
old  men  and  women,  before  they  have  ever 
felt  one  free  pulse  of  childhood  ? 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


207 


Ah!  this  enterprise  which  forms  the  impulse 
and  the  motto  of  modern  civilization,  will 
doubtless  in  the  future  ripen  into  good  for 
all  men, — for  there  is  a  God, — but  the  path 
of  its  present  progress,  is  littered  with  hu- 
man skulls.  It  weaves,  it  spins,  it  builds, 
it  spreads  forth  on  all  sides  its  iron  arms, — 
and  it  has  a  good  capital, — the  blood  of  hu- 
man hearts.  Labor-saviug  machinery,  (the 
most  awful  feature  of  modern  civilization,) 
will,  in  the  future,  when  no  longer  monopo- 
lized by  the  few,  do  the  greater  portion  of 
the  physical  work  of  the  world,  and  bless 
the  entire  race  of  man, — but  until  that  future 
arrives,  labor-saving  machinery  will  send 
more  millions  down  to  death,  than  any  three 
centuries  of  battle-fields,  that  ever  cursed 
the  earth.  Yes,  modern  civilization,  is  very 
much  like  the  locomotive,  rolling  along  an 
iron  track,  at  sixty  miles  per  hour,  with  hot 
coals  at  its  heart,  and  a  cloud  of  smoke  and 
flame  above  it.  Look  at  it,  as  it  thunders 
on  !  What  a  magnificent  impersonation  of 
power ;  of  brute  force  chained  by  the  mind 
of  man  !  All  true, — but  woe,  woe  to  the 
weak  or  helpless,  who  linger  on  its  iron 
track !  and  woe  to  the  weak,  the  crippled, 
or  the  poor,  whom  the  locomotive  of  modern 
civilization  finds  lingering  in  its  way.  Why 
should  it  care  ?  It  has  no  heart.  Its  work 
is  to  move  onward,  and  to  cut  down  all, 
whom  poverty  and  misfortune  have  left  in 
its  path. 

There  is  one  phase  of  poverty  which  hath 
no  parallel  in  its  unspeakable  bitterness.  A 
man  of  genius  with  a  good  heart,  and  some- 
thing of  the  all-overarching  spirit  of  Christ  ^ 


CHAPTER  V. 

MARY,  CARL,  CORNELIUS. 

Leaving  Frank  to  writhe  alone  m  her 
agony.  Nameless  and  Mary  pursued  their 
way  through  the  dark  streets,  as  the  morning 
drew  near.  They  arrived  at  length,  in 
front  of  that  huge  mansion,  in  Greenwich 
street,  which  once  the  palace  of  ease  and 
opulence,  was  now,  from  the  garret  to  the 
cellar,  the  palace  of  rags,  disease  and  poverty. 
How  Mary's  heart  thrilled  as  she  led  Name- 
less through  the  darkness  up  the  marble 
stairs  !  A  few  hours  since  she  went  down 
those  stairs,  with  death  in  her  heart.  Now 
ber  husband,  risen  from  the  grave  was  on 
her  arm,  hope  was  in  her  heart,  and  — 
although  dark  and  bitter  cold,  and  signs  of 
poverty  and  wretchedness  were  all  around 
her, — the  future  opened  before  her  mental 
vision,  rosy  and  golden  in  its  hues  of  pro- 
mise. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairway,  on  the 
fourth  story  Mary  opened  a  door,  and  in  the 
darkness,  led  Nameless  across  the  threshold. 

"  My  home  !"  she  whispered,  and  lighted 
the  candle,  which  hours  ago,  in  the  moment 
of  her  deepest  despair,  she  had  extinguished. 

As  the  light  stole  around  the  place.  Name- 
less at  a  glance  beheld  the  miserable  garret, 
with  its  sloping  roof  walls  of  rough  boards, 
and  scanty  furniture,  a  mattress  in  one  cor- 
ner, a  sheet-iron  stove,  a  table,  and  in  the 
recess  of  the  huge  garret  window  an  old  arm- 
chair. 

"  This  your  home  !"  he  ejaculated  and  at 


in  him,  looks  around  the  world,  sees  the  i  the  same  time  beheld  the  occupant  of  the 
vast  sum  of  human  misery,  and  feels  like  !  arm-chair, — in  that  man  prematurely  old, 
this,  *  with  hut  a  moderate  'portion  of  money, '  his  skeleton  form  incased  in  a  loose  wrap- 
wliat  good  might  not  he  accomplished  !'  and  '  per,  his  emaciated  hands  resting  on  the  arms, 
yet  that  little  sum  is  as  much  beyond  him, —  !  and  one  side  of  his  corpse-like  face  on  the 
as  far  beyond  his  grasp,  as  the  planet  Jupiter.  '  back  of  the  chair, — he  after  a  long  pause, 
That  forth  from  the  womb  of  the  present '  recognized  the  wreck  of  his  master,  Cornelius 

Berman. 

**  0,  my  master  !*'  he  cried  in  a  tone  of 
words,  '  there  is  a  God.'  And  that  the  pres-  inexpressible  emotion,  and  sank  on  his  knees 
ent  age  with  its  deification  of  the  money  |  before  the  sleeping  man,  and  pressed  his 
power,  is  one  of  the  basest  the  world  ever  saw, .  emaciated  hand  reverently  to  his  lips.  "  Is 
cr.nnot  be  disproved,  although  it  may  be  it  thus  I  find  you !"  and  profoundly  affected, 
bitterly  denied.  There  is  something  pitiful  he  remained  kneeling  there,  his  gaze  fixed 
in  the  thought  that  a  world  once  deemed  upon  that  countenance,  which  despite  its  pre- 
worthy  of  the  tread  of  Satan,  is  now  become  mature  wrinkles,  and  dead  apathetic  expres- 


chaos,  a  nobler  era  will  be  born,  no  one  can 
doubt,  who  feels  the  force  of  these  four 


the  crawling  ground  of  Mammon. 


sion,  still  bore  upon  its  forehead, — half  hid  by 


208 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


snow-white  hair, — some  traces  of  the  intellect 
of  Cornelius  Berman. 

While  Nameless  knelt  there  in  silence, 
Mary  glided  from  the  room,  and  after  some 
minutes,  again  appeared,  holding  a  basket  on 
one  arm,  while  the  other  held  some  sticks 
of  wood.  Leaving  her  husband  in  his  rev- 
erie, at  her  father's  feet,  she  built  a  fire  in 
the  sheet-iron  stove,  and  began  to  prepare 
the  first  meal  which  she  had  tasted  in  the 
course  of  twenty  hours.  Continued  excite- 
ment had  kept  her  up  thus  far,  but  her 
brain  began  to  grow  dizzy  and  her  hand  to 
tremble.  At  length  the  white  cloth  was 
spread  on  the  table,  and  the  rich  fragrance 
of  coffee  stole  through  the  atmosphere  of 
the  dismal  garret.  The  banquet  was  spread, 
bread,  butter,  two  cups  of  cofi'ee, — a  sorry 
sort  of  banquet  say  you, — but  just  for  once, 
try  the  experiment  of  twenty-four  hours, 
without  food,  and  you'll  change  your  opin- 
ion. 

The  first  faint  gleam  of  the  winter  morn- 
ing began  to  steal  through  the  garret  win- 
dow. 

"Come,  Carl," — she  glided  softly  to  his 
side,  and  tapped  him  gently  on  the  shoulder, 
"breakfrist  is  ready.  While  father  sleeps, 
just  come  and  see  what  a  good  housekeeper 
I  am." 

He  looked  up  and  beheld  her  smiling, 
although  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

He  rose  and  took  his  seat  beside  her  at 
the  table.  Now  the  garret  was  rude  and 
lonely,  and  the  banquet  by  no  means  luxu- 
rious, and  yet  Nameless  could  not  help 
being  profoundly  agitated,  as  he  took  his 
seat  by  the  side  of  Mary. 

It  was  the  first  time,  in  all  his  memory, 
that  he  had  sat  down  to  a  table,  encircled 
by  the  sanctity  which  clusters  round  the 
word — Home. 

His  wife  was  by  his  side, — this  was  his — 
Home. 

Breakfast  over,  he  once  more  knelt  at  the 
feet  of  the  sleeping  man.  And  Mary  knelt 
by  his  side,  gazing  silently  into  his  face, 
while  his  gaze  was  riveted  upon  her  father's  , 
countenance.  Thus  they  were,  as  the  morn- 1 
ing  light  grew  brighter  on  the  window-pane,  j 
At  length  Mary  rested  her  head  upon  his 
bosom,  and  slept,— he  girdled  her  form  in  [ 
his  cloak,  and  held  her  in  h}s  arms,  while 


her  bosom,  heaving  gently  with  the  calm 
pulsation  of  slumber,  was  close  against  his 
heart.  The  morning  light  grew  brighter  on 
the  window-pane,  and  touched  the  white 
hairs  of  the  father,  and  shone  upon  the 
glowing  cheek  of  the  sleeping  girl. 

Nameless,  wide  awake,  his  eyes  large  and 
full,  and  glittering  with  thought,  gazed  now 
upon  the  face  of  his  old  master,  and  now 
upon  the  countenance  of  his  young  wife. 
And  then  his  whole  life  rose  up  before  him. 
He  was  lost  in  a  maze  of  absorbing  thought. 
His  friendless  childhood,  the  day  when 
Cornelius  first  met  him,  his  student  life,  in 
the  studies  of  the  artist,  the  pleasant  home 
of  the  artist  on  the  river,  the  hour  when  he 
had  reddened  his  hand  with  blood,  his  trial, 
sentence,  the  day  of  execution,  the  burial, 
the  life  in  the  mad-house, — these  scenes  and 
memories  passed  before  him,  with  living 
shapes  and  hues  and  voices.  And  after  all, 
Mary,  his  wife  was  in  his  arms  !  The  sun 
now  came  up,  and  his  first  ray  shone  rosily 
over  the  cheeks  of  the  sleeping  girl. 

Nameless  remembered  the  letter  which 
Frank  had  given  him,  and  now  took  it  from 
the  side  pocket  of  his  coat.  He  surveyed  it 
attentively.  It  bore  his  name,  "Gulian  Van 

HUYDEN." 

"  What  does  it  contain  ?"  he  asked  him- 
self the  question  mentally,  little  dreaming 
of  the  fatal  burden  which  the  letter  bore. 

The  sleeping  man  awoke,  and  gazed  around 
the  apartment  with  large,  lack-luster  eyes. 
At  the  same  time,  with  his  emaciated  hand, 
he  tried  to  clutch  the  sunbeam  which  trem- 
bled over  his  shoulder.  Nameless  felt  his 
heart  leap  to  his  throat  at  the  sight  of  this 
pitiful  wreck  of  genius. 

"Do  you  not  know  me,  master?"  ex- 
claimed Nameless,  pressing  the  hand  of  the 
afflicted  man,  and  fixing  his  gaze  earnestly 
upon  his  face. 

Was  it  an  idle  fancy  ?  Nameless  thought 
he  saw  something  like  a  ray  of  intelligence 
flit  across  that  stricken  face. 

"It  is  I,  Carl  Raphael,  your  pupil,  your 
son !" 

As  though  the  sound  of  that  voice  had  pene- 
trated even  the  sealed  consciousness  of  hope- 
less idiocy,  the  aged  artist  slightly  inclined 
his  head,  and  there  was  a  strange  tremulous- 
ness  in  his  glance. 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


209 


"  Carl  Raphael,  your  son  !"  repeated  Name- 
less, and  clutched  the  hands  of  the  artist. 

Again  that  tremulousness  in  the  glance  of 
the  artist,  and  then, — as  though  a  film  had 
fallen  from  his  eyes, — his  gaze  was  firm,  and 
bright,  and  clear.  It  was  like  the  restoration 
of  a  blind  man  to  sight.  His  gaze  traversed 
the  room,  and  at  length  rested  on  the  face 
of  Nameless. 

"  Carl !"  he  cried,  like  one,  who,  awaking 
from  a  troubled  dream,  finds,  unexpectedly, 
by  his  bed  a  familiar  and  beloved  face — 
"  Carl,  my  son  !" 

Mary  heard  that  voice  ;  it  roused  her  from 
her  slumber.  Starting  up,  she  pressed  her 
father's  hands. 

"  0,  Carl,  Carl,  he  knows  you  !  Thank 
God  !  thank  God  !" 

**  Mary,"  said  the  father,  gazing  upon  her 
earnestly,  like  one  who  tries  to  separate  the 
reality  of  his  waking  hours  from  the  images 
of  a  past  dream. 

First  upon  one  face,  then  upon  the  other, 
he  turned  his  gaze,  meanwhile,  in  an  absent 
manner,  joining  the  hand  of  Mary  and  the 
hand  of  Carl. 

"  Carl !  Mary  !"  he  repeated  the  names  in 
a  low  voice,  and  laid  his  hands  gently  on 
theii-  heads. — "  I  thought  I  had  lost  you,  my 
children.  Carl  and  Mary,"  he  repeated  their 
names  again, — "  Carl  and  Mary  !  God  bless 
you,  my  children ;  and  now  "  he  sur- 
veyed them  with  his  large,  bright  eyes,  "  and 
now  I  must  sleep." 

His  head  fell  gently  forward  on  his  breast, 
and  he  fell  asleep  to  wake  no  more  in  this 
world.  His  mind  had  made  its  last  effort 
in  the  recognition  of  Mary  and  Nameless. 
For  a  moment  it  flashed  brightly  in  its  sock- 
et, and  then  went  out  forever.  He  was  dead. 
Nay,  not  dead,  but  he  was, — to  use  that  in- 
expressibly touching  thought,  in  which  the 
very  soul  and  hope  of  Christianity  is  embo- 
died,—"  a^Zeep  m  CAmi." 

"  When  Mary  raised  his  head  from  his 
breast,  his  eyes  were  vailed  in  the  glassy  film 
of  death.  Leaning  upon  the  arm  which 
never  yet  failed  to  support  the  weary  head 
and  the  tired  heart,  gazing  upon  the  face 
which  always  looks  its  ineffable  consolation, 
into  the  face  of  the  dying,  Cornelius  had 
passed  away  as  calmly  as  a  child  sinking  to 
Bleep  upon  a  mother's  faithful  breast. 


Mary  and  Nameless,  on  their  knees  before 
the  corse,  clasped  those  death-chilled  hands, 
and  wept  in  silence. 

And  the  winter  sun,  shining  bright  upon 
the  window-pane,  fell  upon  their  bowed 
heads,  and  upon  the  tranquil  face  of  the 
dead  father,  around  whose  lips  a  smile  was 
playing,  as  though  some  word  of  "good 
cheer"  had  been  w^hispered  to  him,  by 
angel-tongues,  in  the  moment  ere  he  passed 
away. 

And  thou  art  dead,  brave  artist,  and  life's 
battle  with  thee  is  over, — the  eyes  that  used 
to  look  so  manfully  upon  every  phase  of 
sorrow  and  adversity,  are  all  cold  and  luster- 
less  now, — the  heart  that  generous  emotions 
filled  and  lofty  conceptions  warmed,  sleeps 
pulseless  in  the  lifeless  bosom.  Thou  art 
dead  !  —  dead  in  the  dreary  home  of  Want, 
with  cold  winter  light  upon  thy  gray  hairs. 
Dead  !  Ah,  no, — not  dead,  for  there  is  a 
Presence  in  the  dismal  garret,  invisible  to 
external  eyes,  which  puts  Death  to  shame, 
and  upon  the  gates  of  the  grave  writes,  in 
letters  of  undying  light  :  —  In  all  the  uni- 
verse of  Qx)d  there  is  no  such  thing  as  death,  hut 
sim])hj  a  transition  from  one  life,  or  state  of 
life,  to  another.  Not  dead,  brave  artist. 
Thou  hast  not,  in  a  long  life,  cherished  af- 
fections, gathered  experience  from  the  bitter 
tree  of  adversity,  and  developed,  in  storm  as 
well  as  sunshine,  thy  clear,  beautiful  intel- 
lect, merely  to  bury  them  all  in  the  dull 
grave  at  last.  No, — thou  hast  borne  affec- 
tions, experience,  and  intellect,  to  the  genial 
sunshine  of  the  better  land.  The  coffin-lid 
of  this  life  has  been  lifted  from  thy  soul, — 
thou  art  risen,  indeed, — at  last,  in  truth, 

THOU  LIVEST  ! 

And  the  Presence  which  fills  thy  dark 
chamber  now,  although  often  mocked  by  the 
gross  interpretations  of  a  brutal  theology, 
often  hid  from  the  world  by  the  Gehenna 
smoke  of  conflicting  creeds,  is  a  living  Pres- 
ence, always  living,  always  loving,  always 
bringing  the  baptism  of  consolation  to  the 
way-worn  children  of  this  life,  even  as  it  did 
in  the  hour  when,  embodied  in  a  human 
form,  face  to  face  and  eye  to  eye,  it  spoke  to 
man. 

The  sun  is  high  in  the  wintery  heavens, 
and  his  light,  streaming  thr(5hgh  the  window- 
pane,  falls  upon  the  mattress,  whereon^  coy- 


210 


TUE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


ored  reverently,  by  the  white  sheet,  the  corse 
is  laid.  Mary  is  crouching  there,  one  hand 
supporting  her  forehead,  the  other  resting 
upon  the  open  book,  which  is  placed  upon 
her  knee.  Thus  all  day  long  she  watches  by 
the  dead.  At  last  the  flush  of  evening  is 
upon  the  winter  sky. 

Nameless,  standing  by  the  window,  tears 
open  the  letter  of  Frank,  and  reads  it  by  the 
■wintery  light  The  three  hours  have  passed. 

Why  does  his  face  change  color,  as  he 
reads  ?  The  look  of  grief  which  his  coun- 
tenance wears  is  succeeded  by  one  of  utter 
horror. 

"The  poison  vial!"  he  ejaculates,  and 
places  the  fatal  letter  in  Mary's  hand. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  LOOK  INTO  THE  RED  BOOK. 

Madam  Resimer  was  waiting  in  the  little 
room  up-stairs,  —  waiting  and  watching  in 
that  most  secret  chamber  of  her  mansion, — 
her  cheek  resting  on  her  hand,  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  drawer  from  which  the  Red 
Book  had  been  stolen.    The  day  was  bright 
"without,  but  in  the  closed  apartment,  the 
Madam  watched  by  the  light  of  a  candle, 
which  was  burning  fast  to  the  socket.     The  | 
Madam  had  not  slept.    Her  eyes  were  rest- 
less and  feverish.    Her  cheeks,  instead  of  | 
their  usual  florid  hues,  were  marked  with  al-  j 
temate  spots  of  white  and  red.    Sitting  in  ! 
the  arm-chair,  (which  her  capacious  form,  ! 
clad  in  the  chintz  wrapper,  filled  to  overflow- 1 
ing),  the  Madam  beats  the  carpet  nervously 
with  her  foot,  and  then  her  small  black  eyes 
assume  a  wicked,  a  vixenish  look.  j 

Daylight  is  bright  upon  the  city  and  river  ;  ' 
ten  o'clock  is  near, — the  hour  at  which  Der- 1 
moyne  intended  to  return, — and  yet  the  Mad- 1 
am  has  no  word  of  the  bullies  whom  last 
night  she  set  upon  Dermoyne's  track.  Near  ^ 
ten  o'clock,  and  no  news  of  Dirk,  Slung-Shot,  ' 
or — the  Red  Book  ! 

"  Why  don't  they  come  ! "  exclaimed  the 
Madam,  for  the  fiftieth  time,  and  she  beat 
the  carpet  wickedly  with  her  foot.  \ 

And  from  the  shadows  of  the  apartment, 
a  voice,  most  lugubrious  in  its  tone,  uttered 
the  solitary  word?^"  Why  f" 

"If  they  don't  come,  what  shall  we  do  ?" 


the  Madam's  eyes  grew  wickeder,  and  she 
began  to  "crack"  the  joints  of  her  fingers. 

"  What  f"  echoed  the  lugubrious  voice. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Corkins,"  said  the 
Madam,  turning  fiercely  in  her  chair,  "I 
wish  the  devil  had  you, — I  do  !  Sittin'  there 
in  your  chair,  croakin'  like  a  raven. — 'What ! 
Why  ! '  "  and  she  mimicked  him  wickedly  ; 
"  when  you  should  be,  doin'  somethin'  to 
stave  off  the  trouble  that's  gatherin'  round 
us.  Now  you  know,  that  unless  we  get 
back  the  Red  Book,  we're  ruined,  —  you 
know  it  ?" 

"  Com-pletely  ruined  !"  echoed  Corkins, 
who  sat  in  the  background,  on  the  edge  of 
a  chair,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  his  chin 
on  his  hands.  Corkins,  you  will  remember, 
is  a  little,  slender  man,  clad  in  black,  with  a 
white  cravat  about  his  neck,  a  top-knot  on 
his  low  forehead,  a  "  goatee "  on  his  chin, 
and  gold  spectacles  on  his  nose.  And  as 
Corkins  sits  on  the  edge  of  his  chair,  he  looks 
very  much  like  a  strange  bird  on  its  perch, — 
a  bird  of  evil  omen,  meditating  all  sorts  of 
calamities  sure  to  happen  to  quite  a  number 
of  people,  at  some  time  not  definitely  ascer- 
tained. 

"  It's  near  ten  o'clock,"  glancing  at  the  gold 
watch  which  lay  on  the  table  before  her,  "  and 
no  word  of  Barnhurst,  not  even  a  hint  of 
Dirk  or  Slung  !  And  at  ten,  that  villain  w^ho 
stole  the  book  will  come  back, — that  is,  un- 
less Dirk  and  Slung  have  taken  care  of  him  ! 
I  never  was  in  such  a  fever  in  all  my  life  ! 
Corkins,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  And  your  pa- 
tient,— how  is  she  ?" 

"  As  for  the  patient  up-stairs,"  Corkins  be- 
gan, but  the  w^ords  died  away  on  his  lips. 

The  sound  of  a  bell  rang  clearly,  although 
gloomily  throughout  the  mansion. 

"  Go  to  the  front  door, — quick  !" — in  her 
impatience  the  Madam  bounded  from  her 
chair.  "  See  who's  there.  Open  the  door, 
but  don't  undo  the  chain ;  and  don't, — do 
you  hear  ? — don't  let  anybody  in  until  you 
hear  from  me  !    Quick,  I  say  !" 

"  But  it  isn't  the  front  door  bell,"  hesita- 
ted Corkins. 

Again  the  sound  of  the  bell  was  heard. 

"  It's  the  bell  of  the  secret  passage,"  ejac- 
ulated Madam,  changing  color, — "the  pas- 
sage which  leads  to  a  back  street,  and  of  the 
existence  of  which,  only  four  persons  in  the 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE   AND  DAY. 


211 


world  know  anything.  There  it  goes  again  ! 
who  can  it  be  ?" 

The  Madam  was  evidently  very  much 
perplexed.  Corkins,  who  had  risen  from  his 
perch,  stood  as  though  rooted  to  the  floor ; 
and  the  bell  pealed  loud  and  louder,  in  dis- 
mal echoes  throughout  the  mansion. 

"  Who  can  it  be  ?  "  again  asked  the  Mad- 
am, while  a  thousand  vague  suspicions  float- 
ed through  her  brain. 

"Who  can  it  be  ?  "  echoed  Corkins,  shak- 
ing like  a  dry  leaf  in  the  wind. 

Here  let  us  leave  them  awhile  in  their  per- 
plexity, while  we  retrace  our  steps,  and  take 
up  again  the  adventures  of  Bamhurst  and 
Dermoyne.  We  left  them  in  the  dimly- 
lighted  bed-chamber,  at  the  moment  when 
the  faithful  wife,  awaking  from  her  slumber, 
welcomed  the  return  of  her  husband  in  these 
words, — "  Husband  !  have  you  come  at  last  ? 
I  have  waited  for  you  so  long  ! " 

"  Husband  ! "  said  the  wife,  awaking  from 
her  sleep,  and  stretching  forth  her  arms, 
"  have  you  come  at  last  ?  I  have  waited  for 
you  so  long  !  " 

"  Dearest,  I  was  detained  by  an  unexpected 
circumstance,"  answered  Barnhurst,  and  first 
turning  to  Dermoyne  with  an  imploring  ges- 
ture, he  approached  the  bed,  and  kissed  his 
wife  and  sleeping  child.  Then  back  to  Der- 
moyne again  with  a  stealthy  step, — *'  Take 
your  revenge  !  "  he  whispered  ;  "  advance, 
and  tell  everything  to  my  wife." 

Dermoyne's  face  showed  the  contest  of  oppo- 
sing emotions  ;  now  clouded  -with,  a  hatred  as 
remorseless  as  death,  now  touched  with  some- 
thing like  pity.  At  a  rapid  glance  he  sur- 
veyed the  face  of  the  trembling  culprit, — 
the  boy  sleeping  on  his  couch, — the  mother 
resting  on  the  bed,  with  her  babe  upon  her 
bent  arm, — and  then  uttered  in  a  whisper,  a 
single  word, — "  Come  !  " 

He  led  Barnhurst  over  the  threshold,  out 
upon  the  landing,  and  carefully  closed  the 
door  of  the  bed-chamber. 

*'  Now,  sir,"  he  whispered,  fixing  his  stem 
gaze  upon  Bamhurst's  face,  which  was  lighted 
by  the  rays  of  the  lamp  in  the  hall  below, — 
"^what  have  you  to  propose  ?" 

Bamhurst's  hhnde  visage  was  corpse-like 
in  its  pallor. 

"Nothing,''  he  saiu,  folding  his  arms  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  has  lost  all  hope,  and 


made  up  his  mind  to  the  worst.  "  I  am  in 
your  power." 

Dermoyne,  with  his  finger  to  his  lip,  re- 
mained for  a  moment  buried  in  profound 
thought.  Once  his  eyes,  glancing  sidelong, 
rested  upon  Barnhurst  with  a  sort  of  fero- 
cious glare.  ,  When  he  spoke  again,  it  was 
in  these  words  : — 

"  Enter  your  bed-chamber,  and  sleep  be- 
side your  faithful  wife,  and, — think  of  Alice. 
As  for  myself,  I  will  watch  for  the  morning, 
on  the  sofa,  down  stairs.  Enter,  I  say  ! "  he 
pointed  sternly  to  the  door, — and  remem- 
ber !  at  morning  we  take  up  our  march 
again.  I  Jcjiow  that  you  will  not  escape  from 
me, — and  as  for  your  wife,  if  you  do  not 
wish  her  to  see  me,  you  will  make  your  ap- 
pearance at  an  early  hour." 

Barnhurst,  without  a  v.-ord,  glided  silently 
into  the  bed-chamber,  closing  the  door  after 
him.  Dermoyne,  listening  for  a  moment, 
heard  the  voices  of  the  husband  and  the 
wife,  mingling  in  conversation.  Then  he 
went  quietly  down  stairs,  took  down  the  hang- 
ing-lamp, and  with  it  in  his  hand,  entered  a 
room  on  the  lower  floor. 

It  was  a  neatly-furaished  apartment  with 
a  sofa,  a  piano,  and  a  portrait  of  Barnhurst 
on  the  M^all.  The  remains  of  a  wood-fire 
were  smouldering  on  the  hearth.  Near  the 
piano  stood  an  empty  cradle.  It  was  very 
much  like — home.  It  was,  in  a  word,  the 
room  through  whose  curtained  windows,  we 
gazed  in  our  brief  episode,  and  saw  the 
pure  wife  with  her  children,  awaiting  the 
return  of  the  husband  and  father. 

Dermoyne  lit  a  candle,  which  stood  on  a 
table,  near  the  sofa,  and  then  replaced  the 
hanging  lamp.  This  done,  he  came  into  the 
quiet  parlor  again, — without  once  pausing  to 
notice  that  the  front  door  was  ajar.  Had  he 
but  remarked  this  little  fact,  he  might  have 
saved  himself  a  world  of  trouble.  He  flung 
his  cloak  upon  the  table,  and  placed  his  cap 
and  the  iron  bar  beside  it.  Then  seating 
himself  on  the  sofa,  he  drew  the  Eed  Book 
from  under  his  left  arm,  where  for  hours  he 
'  had  securely  carried  it, — and  spread  it  forth 
upon  his  knees.  Drawing  the  light  nearer 
to  him,  he  began  to  examine  the  contents  of 
±hat  massive  volume.  How  his  countenance 
underwent  all  changes  of  expression,  as  pago 
after  page  was  disclosed  to  his  gaze !  At 


212 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


first  his  lip  curled,  and  his  brow  grew  dark, — 
there  was  doubtless  much  to  move  contempt 
and  hatred  in  those  pages, — but  as  he  read 
on,  his  large  gra}^  eyes,  dilating  in  their 
sockets,  shone  with  steady  light ;  every  lin- 
eament'of  his  countenance,  manifested  pro- 
found, absorbing  interest. 
The  Red  Book  ! 

Of  all  the  singular  volumes,  ever  seen,  this 
certainly  Avas  one  of  the  most  singular.  It 
comprised  perchance,  one  thousand  manu- 
script pages,  written  by  at  least  a  hundred 
hands.  There  were  original  letters,  and 
copies  of  letters;  gome  of  them  traced  by 
the  tremulous  hand  of  the  dying.  There 
■were  histories  and  fragments  of  histories, — 
the  darkest  record  of  the  criminal  court  is 
not  so  black,  as  many  a  history  comprised 
within  the  compass  of  this  volume.  It  con- 
tained the  history,  sometimes  complete  some- 
times in  fragmentary  shape,  of  all  who  had 
ever  sought  the  aid  of  Madam  Resimer,  or, — 
Buffered  beneath  her  hands.  And  there 
were  letters  there,  and  histories  there,  which 
the  Madam  had  evidently  gathered,  with  a 
view  of  extorting  money  from  certain  per- 
sons, who  had  never  passed  into  the  circle 
of  her  ififernal  influence.  All  the  crimes 
that  can  spring  from  unholy  marriages,  from 
violation  of  the  marriage  vow,  from  the  se- 
duction of  innocent  maidenhood,  from  the 
conflict  between  poor  chastity  and  rich 
temptation,  stood  out  upon  those  pages,  in 
forms  of  terrible  life.  That  book  was  a  rev- 
elation of  the  civilization  of  a  large  city, — 
a  glittering  mask  with  a  death's  head  behind 
it, — a  living  body  chained  to  a  leperous 
corpse.  Instead  of  being  called  the  Red 
Book,  it  should  have  been  called  the  Black 
Book,  or  the  Death  Book,  or  the  Mysteries  of 
the  Social  World. 

How  the  aristocracy  of  the  money  power 
was  set  forth  in  those  pages  !  That  aristoc- 
racy which  the  French  know  as  the  "  Bour- 
geoise,"  which  the  English  style  the  "Mid- 
dle Classes,"  and  which  the  Devil  knows 
for  his  "own," — the  name  of  whose  god  the 
Savior  pronounced,  when  he  uttered  the 
word  "  Mammon," — whose  loftiest  aspiration 
is  embodied  in  the  word  "  Respectable !" 
How  this  modern  aristocracy  of  the  money 
power,  stood  out  in  naked  life,  showy  and 
mean,  glittering  and   heartless,   upon  the 


pages  of  the  Red  Book  !  Stood  out  in  colors, 
painted,  not  by  an  enemy,  but  by  its  own  hand, 
the  mark  of  its  baseness  stamped  upon  its 
forehead,  by  its  own  peculiar  seal. 

One  history  was  there,  which,  written  in 
different  hands,  in  an  especial  manner,  riveted 
the  interest  of  Arthur  Dermoyne.  Bending 
forward,  with  the  light  of  the  candle  upon 
his  brow,  he  read  it  page  by  page,  his  face 
manifesting  every  contrast  of  emotion  as  he 
read.  For  a  title  it  bore  a  single  name, 
Avritten  in  a  delicate  womanly  hand, — 
"Marion  Merlin."  The  grater  portion 
of  the  history  was  written  in  the  same 
hand. 

Leaning  upon  the  shoulder  of  Arthur 
Dermoyne,  let  us,  with  him,  read  this  sad, 
dark  history. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

MARIO  N  MERLIN. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  I  was  betrothed  to 
Walter  Howard,  a  young  man  of  polished 
manners,  elegant  exterior,  and  connected 
with  one  of  the  first  families  of  New  York. 
I  was  beautiful,  so  the  world  said, — eighteen 
and  an  heiress.  My  father  was  one  of  the 
wealthiest  merchants  of  New  York,  with  a 
princely  mansion  in  town,  and  as  princely  a 
mansion,  for  summer  residence,  in  the  coun- 
try. I  had  lost  my  mother,  at  an  age  so 
early,  that  I  can  but  dimly  remember  her 
pallid  face.  At  eighteen,  I  was  my  father's 
only  and  idolized  child. 

Returning  from  boarding-school,  where, 
apart  from  the  busy  world,  I  had  passed 
four  years  of  a  life,  which  afterward  was  to 
be  marked  by  deeds  so  singular,  yes,  un- 
natural, I  was  invested  by  my  father,  with 
the  keys  of  his  city  mansion,  and  installed 
as  its  mistress.  Still  kept  apart  from  the 
world, — for  my  father  guarded  me  from  its 
wiles  and  temptations,  with  an  eye  of  sleep- 
less jealousy, — I  was  left  to  form  ideas  of  my 
future  life,  from  the  fancies  of  my  day- 
dreams, or  from  what  knowledge  I  had 
gleaned  from  books.  Walter  was  my  fa- 
ther's head  clerk.  In  that  capacity  he  often 
visited  our  mansion.  To  see  him  was  to 
love  him.  His  form  was  graceful,  and  yet 
manly  ;  his  complexion  a  rich  bronze  ;  his 
eyes  dark,  penetrating  and  melancholy.  As 


213 


for  mj'self,  a  picture  which,  amid  all  my 
changing  fortunes,  I  have  preserved  as  a 
relic  of  happy  and  innocent  days,  shows  a 
girl  of  eighteen,  with  a  form  that  may  well 
be  called  voluptuous,  and  a  face,  (shaded  by 
masses  of  raven  hair,)  which,  with  its  clear 
bronzed  complexion,  large  hazel  eyes,  and 
arching  brows,  tells  the  story  of  my  descent 
on  my  mother's  side, — she  was  a  West-Indian, 
and  there  is  Spanish  blood  in  my  veins.  My 
acquaintance  with  Walter,  ripened  into  warm 
and  passionate  love,  and  one  day,  my  father 
surprised  me,  as  I  hung  upon  my  lover's 
breast,  and  instead  of  chiding  us,  said  with  a 
look  of  unmistakable  affection  : 

"Right,  Walter.  You  have  won  my 
daughter's  love.  When  you  return  from  the 
West  Indies,  you  shall  be  married ;  and 
once  married,  instead  of  my  head  clerk,  you 
shall  be  my  partner." 

My  father  w^as  a  venerable  man,  with  a 
kindly  face  and  snow-white  hair :  as  he 
spoke  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks,  for  (as 
I  afterward  ascertained,)  my  marriage  with 
Walter,  the  orphan  of  one  of  the  dearest 
friends  of  his  boyhood,  had  been  the  most 
treasured  hope  of  his  life  for  years. 

Walter  left  for  Havanna,  intrusted  with 
an  important  and  secret  commission  from 
my  father.  He  was  to  be  absent  only  a 
month.  Why  was  it,  on  the  day  of  his  de- 
parture, as  he  strained  me  to  his  breast  and 
covered  my  face  with  his  passionate  kisses, 
that  a  deep  presentiment  chilled  my  blood  ? 
0  had  he  never  left  my  side,  what  a  world 
of  agony,  of  despair, — yes  of  crime, — would 
liave  been  spared  to  me  ! 

"Be  true  to  me,  Marion !"  these  were  his 
last  words, — "  in  a  month  I  will  return — " 

"  True  to  you  1  can  you  doubt  it  Walter  ? 
True  until  death, — "  and  we  parted. 

I  Avas  once  more  alone,  in  my  father's 
splendid  mansion.  One  evening  he  came 
home,  but  not  with  his  usual  kindly  smile. 
He  was  pale  and  troubled,  and  seemed  to 
avoid  my  gaze.  Without  entering  the  sit- 
ting-room, he  went  at  once  to  his  library, 
and  locked  himself  in,  having  first  directed 
the  servant  to  call  him,  in  case  a  Mr.  Issachar 
Burley  inquired  for  him.  It  was  after  eight 
when  Mr.  Burley  called,  and  was  shown  into 
the  parlor,  while  the  servant  went  to  an- 
nounce him  to  my  father. 


"Miss  Marion,  I  believe!"  ho  said,  as  he 
beheld  me  by  the  light  of  the  astral-lamp, — 
and  then  a  singular  look  passed  over  his  face  ; 
a  look  which  at  that  time  I  could  not  define, 
but  which  afterward  was  made  terribly  clear 
to  me.  This  Mr.  Burley,  who  thus  for  the 
first  time  entered  my  father's  house,  was  by 
no  means  prepossessing  in  his  exterior.  Over 
fifty  years  of  age,  corpulent  in  form,  bald- 
headed,  his  florid  face  bore  the  undeniable 
traces  of  a  life,  exhausted  in  sensual  indul- 
gences. 

While  I  was  taking  a  survey  of  this  sin- 
gular visitor,  the  servant  entered  the  par- 
lor,— 

"  Mr.  Burley  will  please  walk  up  into  the 
library,"  he  said. 

"  Good  night,  dear,"  said  Mr.  Burley  with 
a  bow,  and  a  gesture  that  had  as  much  of 
insolence  as  of  politeness  in  it, — "By-by, — 
we'll  meet  again." 

He  went  up  stairs,  and  my  father  and  he, 
were  closeted  together  for  at  least  two  hours. 
At  ten  o'clock  I  was  sent  for.  I  entered  the 
library,  trembling,  I  know  not  why ;  and 
found  my  father  and  Mr.  Burley,  seated 
on  opposite  sides  of  a  table  overspread  with, 
papers, — a  hanging  lamp,  suspended  over 
the  table,  gave  light  to  the  scene.  My  fa- 
ther was  deadly  pale. 

"  Sit  down,  Marion,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
so  broken  and  changed,  that  I  w'ould  not 
have  recognized  it,  had  I  not  seen  his  face, — 
"  Mr.  Burley  has  something  to  say  to  you." 

"Mr.  Burley  !"  I  ejaculated, — "What  can 
he  have  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"  Speak  to  her, — speak,"  said  my  father, — 
"speak,  fori  cannot, — "  and  resting  his  hands 
on  the  table,  his  head  dropped  on  his  breast. 

"  Sit  down,  my  dear,"  exclaimed  Burley, 
in  a  tone  of  easy  familiarity, — "I  have  a 
little  matter  of  business  with  your  father. 
There's  no  use  of  mincing  words.  Your  fa- 
ther, my  dear,  is  a  ruined  man." 

I  sank  into  a  chair,  and  my  father's 
groan  confirmed  Burley's  words. 

"  Hopelessly  involved,"  continued  Mr. 
Burley, — "Unless  he  can -raise  three  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  by  to-morrow  noon, 
he  is  a  dishonored  man.  Do  you  hear  me, 
my  dear  ?  Dishonored  !" 

"Dishonored!"  groaued  my  father  burying 
his  head  in  his  hands. 


214 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


"And  more  than  this,"  continued  Burley, 
"Your  father,  among  his  many  mercantile 
specuhitions,  has  dabbled  a  little, — yes  more 
than  a  little, — in  the  African  slave-trade. 
He  has  relations  with  certain  gentlemen  at 
Havanna,  which  once  known  to  our  govern- 
ment, would  consign  him  to  the  convict's 
cell." 

The  words  of  the  man  filled  me  with  in- 
dignation, and  with  horror.  Half  fainting  as 
I  was,  I  felt  the  blood  boil  in  my  veins. 

"Father,  rebuke  the  liar," — I  said  as  I 
placed  my  hand  on  his  shoulder. — "Raise 
your  face,  and  tell  him  that  he  is  the  coiner 
of  a  falsehood,  as  atrocious  as  it  is  foolish — " 

My  father  did  not  reply. 

"And  more  than  this," — Burley  went  on, 
as  though  he  had  not  heard  me, — "  I  have  it 
in  my  power,  either  to  relieve  your  father 
from  his  financial  embarrassments,  or, — "  he 
paused  and  surveyed  me  from  head  to  foot, 
— "  or  to  denounce  him  to  the  government 
as  one  guilty,  of  something  which  it  calls 
piracy, — to  wit,  an  intimate  relationship  with 
the  African  slave  trade." 

Again  my  father  groaned,  but  did  not 
raise  his  face. 

The  full  truth  burst  upon  me.  My  father 
Tvas  ruined,  and  in  this  man's  power.  Con- 
fused,— half  maddened,  I  flung  myself  upon 
my  knees,  and  clasped  Burley  by  the  hands. 

"  0,  you  will  not  ruin  my  father,"  I  shriek- 
ed.— "  You  will  save  him." 

Burley  took  my  hands  within  his  own, 
and  bent  down,  until  I  felt  his  breath  upon 
my  cheeks — 

"  Yes,  I  will  save  him,"  he  whispered, — 
"That  is,  for  a  price,  —  your  hand,  my 
dear." 

His  look  could  not  be  mistaken.  At  the 
same  moment,  my  father  raised  his  face  from 
his  hands, — it  was  pallid,  distorted,  stamped 
with  despair. 

"  It  is  the  only  way,  Marion,"  he  said  in 
a  broken  voice,  —  "  Otherwise  your  father 
must  rot  in  a  felon's  cell." 

Amid  all  the  misfortunes  of  a  varied  and 
changeful  life,  the  agony  of  that  moment  has 
never  once  been  forgotten.  I  felt  the  blood 
rush  to  my  head — 

"  Be  it  60,"  I  cried, — and  fell  like  a  dead 
woman  on  the  floor,  at  the  feet  of  Mr.  Issa- 
char  Burley. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

NIAGARA. 

The  next  day  we  were  married.  In  the 
dusk  of  the  evening  four  figures  stood  in  the 
spacious  parlor  of  my  father's  mansion,  by  the 
light  of  a  single  waxen-candle.  There  was 
the  clergyman,  gazing  in  dumb  surprise  upon 
the  parties  to  this  ill-assorted  marriage,  there 
was  my  father,  his  countenance  vacant  almost 
to  imbecility, — for  the  blow  had  stricken 
his  intellect — there  was  the  bridegroom,  his 
countenance  glowing  with  sensual  triumph ; 
and  there  the  bride,  pale  as  the  bridal- dress 
which  enveloped  her  form,  about  to  be  sacri- 
ficed on  the  altar  of  an  unholy  marriage. 
We  were  married,  and  between  the  parlor 
and  the  bridal  chamber,  one  hope  remained. 
Rather  than  submit  to  the  embrace  of  the 
unworthy  sensualist,  I  had  determined  to 
die,  even  upon  the  threshold  of  the  bridal 
chamber.  I  had  provided  myself  with  a 
poniard.  But  alas  !  a  glass  of  wine,  drugged 
by  my  husband's  hand,  benumbed  my  reason, 
and  when  morning  light  broke  upon  me 
again,  I  found  myself  in  his  arms. 

The  history  of  the  next  three  months  may 
be  rapidly  told,  for  they  were  months  of 
agony  and  shame, 

"  I  have  directed  Walter  by  letter,  to  pro- 
ceed from  Havanna  to  the  city  of  Mexico," 
said  my  father  to  me,  the  second  day  after 
the  marriage — "He  will  not  return  for  six 
months,  and  certainly  until  his  return,  shall 
not  hear  of  this, — this, — marriage." 

My  father's  mind  was  broken,  and  from 
that  hour,  he  surrendered  himself  to  Issa- 
char's  control.  Burley  took  charge  of  his 
business,  made  our  house  his  home, — he  was 
my  father's  master  and  mine.  The  course 
which  he  pursued  to  blunt  my  feelings,  and 
deaden  every  faculty  of  my  better  nature,  by 
rousing  all  that  was  sensual  within  me,  was 
worthy  of  him.  He  gav.e  parties  at  our 
home,  to  the  profligate  of  both  sexes,  selected 
from  a  certain  class  of  the  so-called  "  fash- 
ionables," of  New  York.  Revels,  prolonged 
from  midnight  until  dawn,  disturbed  the 
quiet  of  our  mansion  ;  and  in  the  wine-cup, 
and  amid  the  excitement  of  those  fashion- 
able, but  unholy  orgies,  I  soon  learned  to 
forget  the  pure  hopes  of  my  maidenhood. 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


215 


Three  months  passed,  and  no  word  of 
Walter  ;  my  father,  meanwhile,  was  sinking 
deeper  every  day  into  hopeless  imbecility. 
At  length,  the  early  part  of  summer,  my  hus- 
band gathered  together  a  party  of  his  fashion- 
able friends,  and  we  departed  on  a  tour  to 
Niagara  Falls,  up  the  lakes,  and  then  along 
the  St.  Lawrence,  and  to  Montreal.  At 

Niagara  Falls  we  put  up  at  the  Hotel, 

and  the  orgies  which  had  disgraced  my 
father's  mansion,  were  again  resumed.  My 
father  we  had  left  at  home,  in  charge  of  a 
well-tried  and  faithful  servant.  One  summer 
evening,  tired  of  the  scenes  which  took  place 
in  our  parlors,  at  the  hotel,  I  put  on  a  bonnet 
and  vail,  and  alone  pursued  my  way,  across 
the  bridge  to  Iris  Island,  and  from  Iris  to 
Luna  Island.  The  night  was  beautiful ;  from 
a  clear  sky  the  moon  shone  over  the  falls;  and 
the  roar  of  waters,  alone  disturbed  the  silence 
of  the  scene.  Crossing  the  narrow  bridge  which 
separates  Iris  Island  from  Luna  Island,  I  took 
my  way  through  the  deep  shadows  of  the 
thicket,  until  I  emerged  in  the  moonlight, 
upon  the  verge  of  the  falls.  Leaning  against 
a  small  beech  tree,  which  stands  there,  I 
clasped  my  hands  upon  my  bosom,  and 
v/ept.  That  scene,  full  of  the  grandeur  and 
purity  of  nature,  awoke  the  memory  of  my 
pure  and  happier  days. 

"  One  plunge  and  all  is  over  !"  the  thought 
flashed  over  me, — and  I  measured  with  a 
rapid  glance,  the  distance  between  myself 
and  the  brink  of  the  cataract.  But  at  this 
moment  I  discovered  that  I  was  not  alone 
upon  Luna  Island.  A  stranger  was  leaning 
ago.inst  a  tree,  which  was  nearer  to  the  brink 
6f  the  falls  than  the  one  against  which  I 
.eaned.  His  face  was  in  profile,  the  lower 
part  of  it  covered  with  a  thick  moustache  and 
beard;  and  his  gaze  was  lifted  absently  to 
the  moonlight  sky.  As  I  dropped  my  vail 
over  my  face,  and  gazed  at  him  freely,  my- 
self unperceived,  I  felt  my  limbs  bend 
beneath  me,  and  the  blood  rush  in  a  torrent 
to  my  head. 

I  had  only  strength  to  frame  one  word — 
"Walter !"  and  fell  fainting  on  his  breast. 

When  I  recovered  my  consciousness,  I 
found  myself  resting  in  his  arms,  while  he 
covered  my  face  with  burning  kisses. 

"You  here,  Marion  '."  he  cried.    *'  This  is 
indeed  an  unexpected  pleasure  !" 
U 


He  had  not  heard  of  my  marriage  ! 

"I  am  here,  with  some  friends,"  I  faltered. 
"  My  father  could  not  come  with  me  -and — " 

Between  the  kisses  which  he  planted  upon 
the  lips  of  his  betrothed — (so  he  thought) — 
he  explained  his  unexpected  appearance  at 
Niagara.  At  Ilavanna  he  had  received  the 
letter  from  my  father,  desiring  him  to  hasten, 
on  important  business,  to  the  city  of  Mexico. 
He  had  obeyed,  and  accomplished  his  mis- 
sion sooner  than  he  anticipated  ;  had  left 
Vera  Cruz  for  New  Orleans;  taken  steamboat 
for  Cincinnati,  and  from  thence  to  Cleveland, 
and  across  the  lake  to  Buffalo  and  Niagara 
Falls. 

"And  now  I'm  on  my  way  home,  Marion," 
he  concluded.  "  What  a  pleasant  surprise  it 
will  be  for  father  !" 

"  I  am  married,  Walter."  —  The  words 
were  on  my  lips,  but  I  could  not  speak 
them. 

We  rose,  and,  arm  in  arm,  wandered  over 
the  bridge,  up  the  steep,  and  through  the 
winding  walks  of  Goat  Island.  Leaning  ou 
the  arm  of  Walter,  I  forgot  everything  but 
that  he  loved  me  and  that  he  was  with  me. 
I  did  not  dare  to  think  that  to-morrow's 
light  would  disclose  to  him  the  truth — that 
I  v/as  married,  and  to  another.  At  length, 
as  we  approached  the  bridge  Avhich  leads 
from  the  Island  to  the  shore,  I  said — "  Leave 
me  Walter ;  we  must  not  be  seen  to  return 
together.  To-morrow  you  can  call  upon  me, 
when  I  am  in  presence  of  my — friends." 

One  passionate  embrace  was  exchanged, 
'  and  I  watched  him,  as  he  crossed  the  bridge 
j  alone,  until  he  was  out  of  sight.  Why,  I 
j  knew  not,  but  an  impulse  for  which  I  could 
;  not  account,  induced  me  to  retrace  my  steps 
I  to  Luna  Island.  In  a  few  moments  I  had 
I  crossed  the  bridge  (connecting  Iris  with  Luna 
!  Island,)  and  stood  once  more  on  the  Cata- 
ract's brink,  under  the  same  tree  where  an 
hour  before  I  had  discovered  Walrer.  Oh, 
the  agony  of  that  moment,  as,  gazing  over 
the  falls,  I  called  up  my  whole  life,  my 
blighted  prospect,  and  my  future  without 
one  ray  of  hope  !    Should  I  advance,  but  a 


single  step,  and  bury  my  shame  and  my  sor- 
rows beneath  the  cataract  ?  Once  dead,  Wal- 
ter would  at  least  respect  my  memory,  while 
living  he  could  only  despise  and  abhor  me. 
While  thoughts  like  these  flashed  over  my 


216 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


brain,  my  ear  was  saluted  with  the  chorus 
of  a  drinking  song,  hummed  in  an  uneven 
and  tremulous  voice  ;  and,  in  a  moment  my 
husband  passed  before  me,  with  an  unsteady 
step.  He  was  confused  and  excited  by  the 
fumes  of  champagne.  Approaching  the 
verge  of  the  island — but  a  few  feet  from  the 
verge  of  the  cataract — where  the  waters  look 
smooth  and  glassy,  as  they  are  about  to  take 
the  last  plunge,  he  stood  gazing,  now  at  the 
torrent,  now  at  the  moon,  with  a  vague,  half- 
drunken  stare. 

That  moment  decided  my  life  ! 

Uis  attitude,  the  cataract  so  near,  my  own 
lost  and  hopeless  condition,  all  rushed  upon 
me.  Vailing  my  face,  I  darted  forward  and 
uttered  a  shriek.  Startled  by  the  unexpected 
sound,  he  turned,  lost  his  balance,  and  fell 
backward  into  the  torrent.  But,  as  he  fell, 
he  clutcheu  a  branch  Avhich  overhung  the 
water.  Thus,  scarcely  two  yards  from  the 
brink,  he  struggled  madly  for  his  life,  his 
face  upturned  to  the  moon.  I  advanced  and 
uncovered  my  face.  He  knew  me,  for  the 
shock  had  sobered  him. 

"Marion,  save  me,  save  me  !"  he  cried. 

I  gazed  upon  him  without  a  word,  my 
arms  folded  on  my  breast,  and  saw  him 
struggle,  and  heard  the  branch  snap,  and — 
heard  his  death-howl,  as  he  was  swept  over 
the  falls.  Then,  pale  as  death,  and  shudder- 
ing as  with  mortal  cold,  I  dragged  my  steps 
from  the  Island,  over  the  bridge — shrieking 
madly  for  help.  Soon,  I  heard  footsteps 
and  voices.  "  Help  !  help  !"  I  shrieked,  as  I 
was  surrounded  by  a  group  of  faces,  men  and 
women.  "  My  husband  !  my  husband  !  the 
falls  !"  and  sank,  fainting,  in  their  midst. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

A  SECOND  MARRIAGE, 

Morning  came,  and  no  suspicion  attached 
to  mc.  A  murderess — if  not  in  deed,  in 
thought,  certainly — I  was  looked  upon  as 
the  inconsolable  widow.  Walter  left  Niagara 
without  seeing  me.  How  did  he  regard  me? 
I  could  not  tell.  The  death  of  Burley  broke 
up  our  traveling  part}',  and  we  returned  to 
New  York.  I  returned  in  time  to  attend  my 
father's  funeral;  and  found  myself  the 
heiress,  in  my  own  right,  of  three  hundred 
thousand  dollars.    An  heiress  and  a  widow, 


certainly  life  began  to  brighten !  Burley 
removed,  the  incubus  which  sat  upon  my 
father's  Avealth  was  gone ;  and  I  was  beauti- 
ful, and  free,  and  rich — immensely  rich. 

But  where  was  Walter  ?  Months  passed, 
and  I  did  not  see  him.  As  he  was  the  head 
clerk  of  my  father,  I  hoped  to  see  him,  in 
company  with  legal  gentlemen,  engaged  to 
close  up  my  father's  estate.  But  he  settled 
his  accounts,  closed  all  connection  with  my 
father's  estate  and  business,  but  did  not  come 
near  me.  At  length,  weary  of  suspense,  and 
heart-sick  of  the  loneliness  of  my  desolate 
mansion,  I  wrote  to  him,  begging  an  inter- 
view. 

He  called  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening, 
when  a  single  candle  lighted  up  the  spacious 
and  gloomy  parlor.  He  was  dressed  in  deep 
mourning,  and  very  pale. 

"Madam,  you  wished  to  see  me,"  he 
began. 

This  cold  and  formal  manner  cut  me  to 
the  heart. 

"Walter  !"  I  cried,  and  flung  myself  upon 
his  breast,  and  passionately,  but  in  broken 
accents,  told  him  how  my  father's  antici- 
pated ruin  had  forced  me  to  marry  Burley. 

Walter  was  melted.  "  Marion,  I  love  you, 
and  always  shall  love  you,  but — but — " 

He  paused.  In  an  agony  of  suspense  I 
hung  upon  his  words. 

"  But—" 

"But  you  are  so  rich,  and  I  —  I  —  am 
poor  !" 

I  drowned  all  further  words  with  kisses, 
and  in  a  moment  we  were  betrothed  again. 

We  were  married.  Walter  was  the  mas- 
ter of  my  fortune,  my  person  and  my  future. 
We  lived  happily  together,  content  with 
each  other's  society,  and  seeking,  in  the  en- 
dearments of  a  pure  marriage,  to  blot  out  tho 
memorj'-  of  an  unholy  one.  Lly  husband, 
truly  my  husband,  was  all  that  I  could  de-. 
sire  ;  and  by  me,  he  became  the  possessor  of 
a  princely  revenue,  free  to  gratify  his  tasto  J 
for  all  that  is  beautiful  in  the  arts,  in  paint- 
ing and  sculpture,  without  hinderance  or  con- 
trol. Devoted  to  mc,  always  kind,  eager  to 
gratify  m.y  slightest  wish,  Walter  was  all 
that  I  could  desire.  We  lived  to  ourselves, 
and  forgot  the  miserable  mockery  called  "the 
fashionable  world,"  into  which  Burley  had 
introduced  me.    Thus  a  year  passed  away. 


THE  DAWK,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


217 


and  present  happiness  banished  the  memory 
of  a  gloomy  past.  After  a  year,  Walter 
began  to  have  important  engagements,  on 
pressing  business,  in  Philadelphia,  Boston, 
Baltimore  and  Washington.  His  absence 
^vas  death  to  me  ;  but,  having  full  confidence 
in  him,  and  aware  that  his  business  must  be 
of  vital  importance,  or  assuredly  he  would  not 
leave  me,  I  saw  him  depart,  time  and  again, 
with  grief  too  deep  for  words,  and  always 
..  hailed  his  return — the  very  echo  of  his  step 
t  with  a  joy  as  deep.  On  one  occasion,  when 
•■'he  left  me,  for  a  day,  on  a  business  visit  to 
Philadelphia,  I  determined — I  scarcely  knew 
why — to  follow  him,  and  greet  him,  on  his 
arrival  in  Philadelphia,  with  the  unexpected 
,  but  welcome  surprise  of  my  presence.  Cloth- 
ing myself  in  black — black  velvet  bonnet, 
.  and  black  velvet  mantilla,  and  with  a  dark 
vail  over  my  face — I  followed  him  to  the 
ferry-boat,  crossed  to  Jersey  City,  and  took 
my  seat  near  him  in  the  cars.  We  arrived 
in  Philadelphia  late  at  night.  To  my  sur- 
prise he  did  not  put  up  at  one  of  the  promi- 
nent hotels,  but  bent  his  way  to  an  obscure 
and  distant  part  of  the  city.  I  followed  him 
to  a  remote  part  of  Kensington,  and  saw  him 
knock  at  the  door  of  an  isolated  two-story 
house.  After  a  pause,  it  was  opened,  and  he 
entered.  I  waited  from  the  hour  of  twelve 
until  three,  but  he  did  not  re-appear.  Sadly 
and  with  heavy  steps  I  bent  my  way  to  the 
city,  and  took  lodgings  at  a  respectable  but 
third-rate  tavern,  representing  myself  as  a 
widow  from  the  interior,  and  taking  great 
care  to  conceal  my  face  from  the  gaze  of  the 
landlord  and  servants.  Next  morning  it  was 
my  first  care  to  procure  a  male  dress, — it 
matters  not  how,  or  with  what  caution  and 
trouble, — and,  tying  it  up  in  a  compact  bun- 
dle, I  made  my  way  to  the  open  country  and 
entered  a  wood.  It  was  the  first  of  autumn, 
and  already  the  leaves  were  tinted  with  rain- 
bow dyes.  In  the  thickest  part  of  the  wood 
I  disposed  of  my  female  attire,  and  assumed 
the  male  dress — blue  frock,  buttoned  to  the 
throat,  dark  pantaloons,  and  gaiter  boots. 
My  dark  hair  I  arranged  beneath  a  glazed 
cap 'with  military  buttons.  Cutting  a  switch 
I  twirled  it  jauntily  in  my  hand,  and, 
anxious  to  test  my  disguise,  entered  a  way- 
side cottage — near  the  Second  Street  Road — 
and  asked  for  a  glass  of  water.    While  the 


back  of  the  tenant  of  the  cottage — an  aged 
woman — was  turned,  I  gazed  in  the  looking- 
glass,  and  beheld  myself,  to  all  appearance, 
a  young  man  of  medium  stature,  with  brown 
complexion  of  exceeding  richness,  lips  of 
cherry  red,  arched  brows,  eyes  of  unusual 
brilliancy,  and  black  hair,  arranged  in  a 
glossy  mass  beneath  a  glazed  cap.  It  was 
the  image  of  a  handsome  boy  of  nineteen, 
with  no  down  on  the  lip  and  no  beard  on  the 
chin.  Satisfied  with  my  disguise,  and  with 
a  half-formed  idea  floating  through  my  brain, 
I  bent  my  steps  to  the  isolated  house, 
which  I  had  seen  my  husband  enter  the 
night  before.  I  knocked ;  the  door  was 
opened  by  a  young  girl,  plainly  clad,  but  of 
surpassing  beauty — evidently  not  more  than 
sixteen  years  old.  A  sunny  complexion, 
blue  eyes,  masses  of  glossy  brown  hair,  com- 
bined with  an  expression  which  mingled 
voluptuous  warmth  with  stainless  innocence 
Such  was  her  face.  As  to  her  form,  although 
not  so  tall  as  mine,  it  mingled  the  graceful 
outlines  of  the  maiden  with  the  ripeness  of 
the  woman. 

CHAPTER  X. 

A    SECOND  MUEDER. 

She  gazed  upon  me  with  surprise.  Obey- 
ing a  sudden  impulse,  I  said — "  Excuse  me, 
Miss,  but  I  promised  to  meet  him  here.  You 
know,"  Avith  a  polite  bow  and  smile,  "  you 
know  whom  I  mean  ?" 

"Mr.  Barton — "  she  hesitated. 

"  Exactly  so ;  Mr.  Barton,  my  intimate 
friend,  who  has  confided  all  to  me,  and  who 
desired  me  to  meet  him  here  at  this  hour." 

"My  mother  is  not  at  home,"  hesitated 
the  young  girl,  "and,  in  her  absence,  I  do 
not  like  to — " 

"Receive  strangers,  you  were  about  to 
add  ?  Well,  Miss,  I  am  not  a  stranger.  As 
the  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Barton,  v/ho 
especially  desired  me  to  meet  him  here — " 

These  words  seemed  to  resolve  all  her 
doub*^s.  She  motioned  me  to  enter,  and  we 
passed  into  a  small  room,  neatly  furnished, 
with  the  light  which  came  through  the  cur- 
tained windows,  shining  upon  a  picture,— 
the  portrait  of  Walter  Howard,  my  husband. 

"  Capital  likeness  of  Barton,"  I  said,  care- 
lessly tapping  my  switch  against  my  boot. 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


218 

"Yes, — yes,"  she  replied  as  she  took  a 
seat  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  sofa, — "  but 
not  so  handsome." 

In  the  course  of  two  hours,  in  which  with 
a  maddened  pulse  and  heaving  breast,  I 
waited  for  the  appearance  of  my  husband, 
I  learned  from  the  young  girl  the  following 
facts  : — She  was  a  poor  girl,  and  her  mother, 
•with  whom  she  lived,  a  widow  in  very  mod- 
erate circumstances.  Her  name  was  Ada  Bul- 
mer.  Mr.  Lawrence  Barton  (this,  of  course, 
was  the  assumed  name  of  my  husband,)  was 
a  wealthy  gentleman  of  a  noble  heart, — he 
had  saved  her  life  in  a  railroad  accident, 
some  months  before.  He  had  been  unhap- 
py, however,  in  marriage  ;  was  now  divorced 
from  a  wicked  and  unfaithful  woman  ;  and, — 
here  was  the  climax, — "  and  next  week  we 
are  to  be  married,  and  mother,  Lawrence,  and 
myself  will  proceed  to  Europe  directly  after 
our  marriage." 

This  was  Ada's  story,  which  I  heard 
with  emotions  that  can  scarcely  be  imagined. 
Every  word  planted  a  hell  in  my  heart.  At 
length,  toward  nightfall,  a  knock  was  heard, 
and  Ada  hastened  to  the  door.  Presently  I 
heard  my  husband's  step  in  the  entry,  and 
then  his  voice, — 

"  Dearest,  "  there  was  the  sound  of  a 

kiss, — "  I  have  got  rid  of  that  infamous  wo- 
man, who  killed  her  first  husband,  and  have 
turned  all  my  property  into  ready  money. 
On  Monday  we  start  for  Europe." 

He  entered,  and  as  he  entered  I  glided  be- 
hind the  door.  Thus  his  back  was  toward 
me,  while  his  face  was  toward  Ada,  and  his 
arms  about  her  waist. 

"  On  Monday,  dearest,  we  will  be  married, 
and  then  " 

I  was  white  with  rage,  but  calm  as  death. 
Drawing  the  poniard,  (which  I  had  never 
parted  with  since  I  first  procured  it,)  I  ad- 
vanced and  struck  him,  once,  twice,  thrice, 
in  the  back.  He  never  behold  me,  but  fell 
upon  Ada's  breast,  bathed  in  blood.  She 
uttered  a  shriek,  but  laying  my  hand  upon 
her  shoulder,  I  said,  sternly, — 

'*  Not  a  word !  this  villain  seduced 
my  only  sister,  as  he  would  have  seduced 
you  !" 

I  tore  him  from  her  arms,  and  laid  him  on 
the  sofa  ;  he  was  speechless  ;  the  blood  flow- 
ed from  his  mouth  and  nostrils,  but  by  his 


glance,  I  saw  that  he  knew  me.  Ada,  white 
as  a  shroud,  tottered  toward  him.  i 

*'  Seducer  of  my  sister,  have  we  met  at  I 
last  ?"  I  said  aloud, — and  then  bending  my . 
face  to  his,  and  my  bosom  close  to  his  breast, 
I  whispered,—^ 

"The  wicked  woman  v/ho  killed  her  first 
husband,  gives  you  this," — and  in  my  rage . 
buried  the  poniard  in  his  heart. 

Ada  fell  fainting  to  the  floor,  and  I  hurried 
from  the  house.  It  was  a  dark  night,  enliv- 
ened only  by  the  rays  of  the  stars,  but  I 
gained  the  wood,  washed  the  blood  from  my 
hands,  and  resumed  my  female  attire.  Ini 
less  than  an  hour,  I  reached  the  depot  at  , 
Kensington,  entered  the  cars,  and  beforei 
twelve,  crossed  the  threshold  of  my  own 
home  in  New  York. 

How  I  passed  the  night, — with  what  emo- 
tions of  agony,  remorse,  jealousy, — matters 
not.    And  for  three  days  afterward,  as  I 
awaited  for  the  developments,  I  was  many  c 
times  near  raving  madness.   The  account  of  [ 
my  husband's  death  filled  the  papers  ;  and  it  a 
was  supposed  that  he  had  been  killed  by  )j 
some  unknown  man,  in  revenge,  for  the  se-  k 
duction  of  a  sister.    My  wild  demeanor  was  t 
attributed  to  natural  grief  at  his  untimely 
end. 

On  the  fourth  day  I  had  his  body  brought 
on  from  Philadelphia  ;  and  on  the  fifth,  cel- 
ebrated his  funeral,  following  his  corpse  to 
the  family  vault,  draped  in  widow's  weeds, 
and  blinded  with  tears  of  grief,  or  of — despair. 
Ada  Bulmer  I  never  saw  again,  but  believe 
she  died  within  a  year  of  consumption  or  a 
broken  heart. 



CHAPTER  XL 

MARION  AND  HERMAN  BARNHUBST.  ^ 

Alone  in  my  mansion,  secluded  from  the  n; 
world,  I  passed  many  months  in  harrowing  if 
meditations  on  the  past.  Oftentimes  I  saw 
the  face  of  Walter  dabbled  in  blood,  and 
both  awake  and  in  my  dreams,  I  saw,  0, 
how  vividly  his  last  look !  I  was  still  rich, 
(although  Walter,  as  I  discovered,  after  his 
death,  had  recklessly  squandered  more  than 
one-half  of  my  fortune,)  but  what  mattered 
riches  to  one  devoured  like  myself  by  an 
ever-gnawing  remorse  ?  What  might  I  have 
been  had  not  Burley  forced  me  into  that 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


219 


unholy  marriage  ?  This  question  was  never 
out  of  my  mind  for  a  long  year,  during  which 
I  wore  the  weeds  of  widowhood,  and  kept  al- 
most entirely  within  the  limits  of  my  mansion. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  year  an  incident 
occurred  which  had  an  important  bearing  on 
my  fate.    Near  my  home  stood  a  church,  in 
which  a  young  and  eloquent  preacher  held 
forth  to  the  admiration  of  a  fashionable  con- 
gregation, every  Sabbath-day.    On  one  occa- 
sion I  occupied  a  seat  near  the  pulpit,  and 
was  much  struck  by  his  youthful  appear- 
,  ance,  combined  with  eloquence  so  touching 
and  enthusiastic.    His  eagle  eye,  shone  from 
I  his  pallid  face,  with  all  the  fire  of  an  earnest, 
a  heartfelt  sincerity.    I  was  struck  by  the 
entire  manner  of  the  man,  and  more  than 
once  in  his  sermon  he  seemed  to  address  me 
f  in  especial,  for  our  eyes  met,  as  though  there 
:  was  a  mutual  magnetism  in  our  gaze.  When 
:  I  returned  home  I  could  not  banish  his  face 
'  nor  his  accents  from  my  memory  ;  I  felt  my- 
self devoured  by  opposing  emotions  ;  re- 
morse for  the  past,  mingled  with  a  sensation 
of  interest  in  -  the  youthful  preacher.  At 
length,  after  much  thought,  I  sent  him  this 
note  by  the  hands  of  a  servant  in  livery  : — 

Reverend  Sir, — 

A  lady  who  heard  your  eloquent  sermon 
on  "  Cmscieiice,'"  on  Sabbath  last,  desires  to 
ask  your  advice  in  a  matter  touching  the 

peace  of  her  soul.    She  resides  at  No.  , 

and  will  be  glad  to  receive  you  to-morrow 
evening.  M.  h. 

This  singular  note  was  dispatched,  and 
the  servant  directed  to  inform  the  Rev.  Her- 
man Barnhurst  of  my  full  name.  As  the 
appointed  hour  drew  nigh,  I  felt  nervous  and 
restless.  Will  he  come  ?  Shall  I  unbosom 
myself  to  him,  and  obtain  at  least  a  portion 
of  mental  peace  by  confessing  the  deeds  and 
thoughts  which  rest  so  heavy  on  my  soul  ? 
At  last  dusk  came  ;  two  candles  stood  lighted 
on  the  mantle  of  the  front  parlor,  and  seated  | 
on  the  sofa  I  nervously  awaited  the  coming  j 
of  the  preacher.  j 

"  I  will  confess  all !"  I  thought,  and  rais-  ; 
ing  my  eyes,  surveyed  myself  in  the  mirror  j 
which  hung  opposite.     The  past  year,  with  | 
all  its  sorrow,  had  rather  added  to,  than  de- 
tracted from,  my  personal  appearance.    My  1 


form  was  more  matured  and  womanly.  And 
the  sorrow  which  I  had  endured  had  given  a 
grave  earnestness  to  my  look,  which,  in  the 
eyes  of  some,  would  have  been  more  win- 
ning than  the  glance  of  voluptuous  languor. 
Dressed  in  deep  black,  my  bust  covered  to 
the  throat,  and  my  hair  gathered  plainly 
aside  from  my  face,  I  looked  the  grave,  seri- 
ous— and,  I  may  add,  without  vanity — the 
beautiful  widow.  The  Rev.  Herman  Barn- 
hurst was  announced  at  last, — how  I  trem- 
bled as  I  heard  his  step  in  the  hall !  He 
entered,  and  greeting  him  with  an  extended 
hand,  I  thanked  him  warmly  for  calling  in 
answer  to  my  informal  note,  and  motioned 
him  to  a  chair.  There  was  surprise  and  con- 
straint in  his  manner,  but  he  never  once  took 
his  eyes  from  my  face.  He  stammered  and 
even  blushed  as  he  spoke  to  me. 

**  You  spoke,  madam,  of  a  case  of  con- 
science," he  began. 

"  A  cas.e  of  conscience  about  which  I 
wished  to  speak  to  you," 

"  Surely,"  he  said,  fixing  his  gaze  earnestly 
upon  me,  and  his  words  seemed  to  be  forced 
from  him,  even  against  his  will, — "  surely 
one  so  beautiful  and  so  good  cannot  have 

anything  like  sin  upon  her  soul  " 

Our  gaze  met,  and  from  that  moment  we 
talked  of  everything  but  the  case  of  con- 
science. All  his  restraint  vanished.  His 
eye  flashed,  his  voice  rolled  deep  and  full ; 
he  was  eloquent,  and  he  was  at  home.  We 
seemed  to  have  been  acquainted  for  years. 
We  talked  of  history,  poetry,  the  beautiful 
in  nature,  the  wonderful  in  art ;  and  we 
talked  without  effort,  as  though  our  minds 
mingled  together,  without  even  the  aid  of 
voice  and  eyes.  Time  sped  noiselessly, — it 
was  twelve  o'clock  before  we  thought  it 
nine.    He  rose  to  go. 

"  I  shall  do  myself  the  pleasure  to  call 
again,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  faltered. 

I  extended  my  hand  ;  his  hand  met  it  in 
a  gentle  pressure.  That  touch  decided  our 
fate.  As  though  my  very  being  and  his  had 
rushed  together  and  melted  into  one,  in  that 
slight  pressure  of  hand  to  hand,  we  stood 
silent  and  confused, — one  feeling  in  our  gaze, 
— blushing  and  pale  by  turns. 

"  Woman,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  scarcely 
above  a  whisper,  "  you  will  drive  me  mad/" 
and  sank  half-fainting  on  his  knees. 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


220 

I  bent  down  and  drew  him  to  my  breast, 
and  covered  his  forehead  with  kisses.  Pale, 
half- fainting,  he  lay  almost  helpless  in  my 
arms. 

*'  Not  mad,  Herman,"  I  whisjDcred,  "  but  I 
•will  be  your  good  angel ;  I  will  cheer  you 
in  your  mission  of  good.  I  will  watch  over 
you  as  you  ascend,  step  by  step,  the  diffi- 
cult steep  of  fame  ;  and  Herman,  I  will  love 
you." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  young  brow  had 
trembled  to  a  woman's  kiss. 

"Nay, — nay, — tempt  me  not,"  he  mur- 
mured, and  unwound  my  arms  from  his 
neck,  and  staggered  to  the  door. 

But  as  he  reached  the  threshold,  he  turn- 
ed,— our  gaze  met, — he  rushed  forward  with 
outspread  arms, — 

"  I  love  you  ! "  he  cried,  and  his  face  was 
buried  on  my  bosom. 

******** 
From  that  hour  the  Eev.  Herman  Barn- 
hurst  was  the  constant  visitor  at  my  house. 
He  lived  in  my  presence.  His  sermons,  for- 
merly lofty  and  somber  in  their  enthusiasm, 
became  colored  with  a  passionate  Avarmth. 
I  felt  a  strange  interest  in  the  beautiful  boy  ; 
a  feeling  compounded  of  pure  love  ;  of  pas- 
sion ;  of  voluptuousness,  the  most  intense 
and  refined. 

"  0,  Marion,  do  you  not  think  that  if  I  act 
aright  in  all  other  respects,  that  this  one  sin 
will  be  forgiven  me  ?"  said  Herman,  as  one 
Sabbath  evening,  after  the  service  was  over, 
we  sat,  side  by  side,  in  my  house.  It  was 
in  a  quiet  room,  the  curtains  drawn,  a  light 
shining  in  front  of  a  mirror,  and  a  couch 
dimly  seen  through  the  shadows  of  an  al- 
cove. 

"  One  sin  ?  what  mean  you,  Herman  ?" 

**  The  sin  of  loving  you," — and  he  blushed 
as  his  earnest  gaze  met  mine. 

"And  is  it  a  sin  to  love  me  ?"  I  answered 
in  a  low  voice,  suffering  my  hand  to  rest 
upon  his  forehead. 

"  Yes,"  he  stammered, — "  to  love  you 
thus  Tinlawfully." 

"  Why  unlawfully  ?" 

He  buried  hs  head  on  my  breast,  as  he 
replied, — "  I  love  you  as  a  husband,  and  I 
am  iiOt  your  husband." 

"And  why — "  I  exclaimed,  seizing  him 
Li  my  arms,  and  gently  raising  his  head,  so 


that  our  gaze  met, — "  and  why  can  you  not| 
be  my  husband  ?  I  am  rich  ;  you  have  ge- 
nius. My  wealth, — enough  for  us  both, — 
shall  be  linked  with  your  genius,  and  both 
shall  the  more  firmly  cement  our  love. 
Say,  Herman,  why  can  you  not  be  my  hus- 
band ?" 

He  turned  pale,  and  avoided  my  gaze. 

"You  are  ashamed  of  me, — ashamed,  be- 
cause I  have  given  you  the  last  proof  which 
a  woman  can  give  to  the  man  she  loves." 

"Ashamed!    0,  no,  no, — by  all  that  L* 
sacred,  no, — ^but  Marion  " 

And  bending  nearer  to  me,  in  faltering  ac- 
cents, he  whispered  the  secret  to  my  ears. 
He  was  betrothed  to  Fanny  Lansdale,  th^' 
daughter  of  the  wealthiest  and  most  influen- 
tial member  of  his  congregation.  He  had 
been  betrothed  long  before  he  met  me.  To 
Mr.  Lansdale,  the  father,  he  owed  all  that 
he  had  acquired  in  life,  both  in  position  and  i 
fame.  That  gentleman  had  taken  him  when 
a  friendless  orphan  boy,  had  educated  him, 
and  after  his  ordination,  had  obtained  for 
him  the  pastoral  charge  of  his  large  and 
wealthy  congregation.  Thus,  he  was  bound 
to  the  father  by  every  tie  of  gratitude  ;  tO; 
the  daughter  by  an  engagement  that  he 
could  not  break,  without  ingratitude  and 
disgrace.  My  heart  died  within  me  at 
this  revelation.  At  once  I  saw  that  Her- 
man could  never  be  lawfully  mine.  Be- 
tween him  and  myself  stood  Fanny  Lans« 
dale,  and  every  tie  of  gratitude,  and  every 
emotion  of  self-respect  and  honor. 

CHAPTEK  XII. 

MARION   AND  FANNY. 

Not  long  after  this  interview,  I  saw  Fanny 
Lansdale  at  church ;  made  the  acquaintance 
of  her  father — a  grave  citizen,  who  regarded 
me  as  a  sincere  devotee — and  induced  Fanny 
to  become  a  frequent  visitor  at  my  house. 
She  confided  all  to  me.  She  loved  Herman 
devotedly,  and  looked  forward  to  their  map* 
riage  as  the  most  certain  event  in  the  world. 
She  was  a  very  pretty  child,  with  clear  blue 
eyes,  luxuriant  hair,  and  a  look  of  bewitch- 
ing archness.  I  do  not  step  aside  from  the 
truth,  when  I  state  that  I  sincerely  loved 
her ;  although  it  is  also  ti'ue,  that  I  never 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


221 


suffered  myself  to  think  of  her  marriage  | 
with  Herman  as  anj-thing  but  an  impossible  | 
dream.    An  incident  took  place  one  summer  | 
evening,  about  a  year  after  Herman's  first 
visit  to  my  house,  which,  slight  as  it  was,  it 
is  just  as  well  to  relate.    It  is  such  slight 
incidents  which  often  decide  the  fate  of  a 
lifetime,  and  strike  down  the  barrier  between 
innocence  and  crime. 

I  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  at  the  back  win- 
dow of  the  parlor,  and  Fanny  sat  on  the 
stool  at  my  feet.  The  light  of  the  setting 
sun  shone  over  my  shoulders,  and  lighted  up 
her  face,  as  her  clasped  hands  rested  on  my 
knees,  and  her  happ}^,  guileless  look,  was 
centered  on  my  countenance.  As  I  gazed 
upon  that  innocent  face,  full  of  youth  and 
hope,  I  w^as  reminded  of  my  own  early  days; 
and  at  the  memory,  a  tear  rolled  down  my 
cheek. 

"Yes,  you  shall  marry  Herman,"  the 
thought  flashed  over  my  mind  ;  "  and  I  will 
aid  you,  Fanny  ;  yes,  I  will  resign  Herman 
to  you." 

At  this  moment  Herman  entered  noise- 
lessly, and  took  his  place  by  my  shoulder ; 
and,  without  a  word,  gazed  first  into  my  face 
and  then  into  the  face  of  Fanny.  Oh,  that 
look  !  It  was  never  forgotten.  It  was  fate. 
For  it  said,  as  plainly  as  a  soul,  speaking 
through  eyes,  can  say — "  Thou,  Marion,  art 
my  mistress,  the  companion  of  my  illicit  and 
sensual  love  ;  but  thou,  Fanny,  art  my  wife, 
the  pure  partner  of  my  lawful  love  !" 

After  that  look,  Herman  bade  us  good 
evening  !  in  a  tone  of  evident  agitation,  and 
hurried  from  the  room. 

From  that  hour,  Herman  avoided  me. 
Weeks  passed,  and  he  was  not  seen  at  my 
house.  At  church  he  never  seemed  to  be 
conscious  of  my  presence ;  and,  the  service 
over,  hurried  at  once  from  the  place,  with- 
out a  single  glance  or  sign  of  recognition. 
At  length,  Fanny's  visits  became  less  fre- 
quent ;  and,  when  she  did  come  to  see  me, 
her  manner  manifested  a  conflict  of  confi- 
dence and  suspicion;  That  this  wounded 
me — that  the  absence  of  Herman  cut  me  to 
the  soul — may  easily  be  imagined.  1  passed 
my  time  between  alternations  of  hope  and 
despair ;  now  listening,  and  in  vain,  for  the 
echo  of  Herman's  step — and  now  bathed  in 
uc availing  tears.    Conscious  that  my  passion 


for  Herman  was  the  last  link  that  bound  mo 
to  purity — to  life  itself — I  did  not  give  up 
the  hope  of  seeing  him  at  my  feet,  as  in 
former  da^'s,  until  months  had  elapsed.  Fi- 
nally, grown  desperate,  and  anxious  to  avoid 
the  sting  of  wounded  love,  the  perpetual 
presence  of  harrowing  memories,  I  sought 
the  society  of  that  class  of  fashionables,  to 
whom  my  first  husband,  Issachar  Burley,  had 
introduced  me.  I  kept  open  house  for  them. 
Revels,  from  midnight  until  dawn,  in  which 
men  and  women  of  the  first  class  mingled, 
served  for  a  time  to  banish  reflection,  and 
sap,  tie  by  tie,  every  thread  of  hope  which 
held  me  to  a  purer  state  of  life.  The  kennel 
has  its  orgies,  and  the  hovel,  in  which  igno- 
rance and  squalor  join  in  their  uncouth  de- 
bauch; but  the  orgie  of  the  parlor,  in  which 
beauty,  intellect,  fashion  and  refinement  are 
mingled,  far  surpasses,  in  unutterable  vulgar- 
ity, the  lowest  orgie  of  the  kennel.  Amid 
the  uproar  of  scenes  like  these,  news  reached 
me  that  the  Rev.  Herman  Barnhurst  and 
Miss  Fanny  Lansdale  were  shortly  to  be 
united  in  marriage. 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

AN  UNUTTERABLE  CRIirE. 

One  evening  I  was  sitting  alone,  in  the 
back  parlor,  near  a  table  on  which  stood  si 
lighted  candle  and  a  wine-glass,  (for  I  now 
at  times  began  to  seek  oblivion  in  wine,) 
when  Gerald  Dudley  was  announced.  Gerald 
was  one  of  my  fashionable  friends,  over  forty 
in  years,  tall  in  statue,  with  a  florid  face, 
short  curling  brown  hair,  and  sandy  whis- 
kers. He  was  a  roue^  and  a  gambler,  and — 
save  the  mark — one  of  the  first  fashionablea 
of  New  York.  He  entered,  dressed  in  a 
showy  style ;  blue  coat,  red  velvet  vest, 
plaid  pants,  brimstone-colored  gloves,  and  a 
profusion  of  rings  and  other  jewelry — a  stylo 
indicative  of  the  man.  Seating  himself  on 
the  sofa,  he  began  chatting  in  his  easy  way 
about  passing  events  of  fashionable  life,  and 
of  the  world  at  large. 

"  By-the-bye,  the  popular  preacher,  young 
Barnhurst,  is  to  be  married  ;  and  to  such  a 
love  of  a  girl — daughter  of  old  Lansdale,  the 
millionaire.  Lucky  fellow  !  Do  you  know  that 
I've  often  noticed  her  at  church — a  perfect 
Ede — and  followed  her  home,  once  or  twice, 


222 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


and  that  I  shouldn't  mind  marrying  her  my- 
self if  I  could  get  a  chancel" 

And  he  laughed  a  laugh  which  showed 
his  white  teeth.  "Bah!  But  that's  it— I 
can't  get  a  chance," 

Perhaps  I  blushed  at  the  mention  of  this 
marriage  ;  hut  he  immediately  continued  : — 

"  On  dit,  my  pretty  widow,  that  this  girl, 
Lansdale,  has  cut  you  out,  Barnhurst  once 
was  sadly  taken  with  you ;  so  I've  heard. 
How  is  it  ?    All  talk,  I  suppose  ?" 

I  felt  myself  growing  pale,  although  the 
blood  was  boiling  in  my  veins.  But  before 
I  could  reply,  there  was  a  ring  at  the  front 
door,  followed  by  the  sound  of  a  hasty  foot- 
step, and  the  next  moment,  to  my  utter  sur- 
prise, Fanny  Lansdale  rushed  into  the  room. 
Without  seeming  to  notice  the  presence  of 
Dudley,  she  rushed  forward,  and  fell  on  her 
knees  before  me,  her  bonnet  hanging  on  her 
neck,  her  hair  floating  about  her  face,  and 
that  face  bathed  in  blushes  and  tears. 

"  Oh,  Marion  !  Marion  !"  she  gasped, — 
"some  slanderer  has  told  father  a  story  about 
you  and  Herman, — a  vile,  wicked  story, — 
which  you  can  refute,  and  which  I  am  sure 
you  will  1    For — for — " 

She  fell  fainting  on  my  knee.  The  vio- 
lence of  her  emotions,  for  the  time,  deprived 
her  of  all  appearance  of  life.  Her  head  was 
on  my  lap  ;  one  hand  sought  mine,  and  was 
joined  to  it  in  a  convulsive  clasp. 

Oh,  who  shall  say  that  those  crimes  which 
make  the  world  shudder  but  to  hear  told, 
are  the  result  of  long  and  skillful  planning, 
of  careful  and  intricate  scheming  ?  No,  no; 
the  worst  crimes  —  those  Avhich  it  would 
seem  might  make  even  the  heart  of  a  devil, 
contract  with  horror — are  not  the  result  of 
long  and  deliberate  purpose,  but  of  the 
temptation  of  a  moment — of  the  fatal  oppor- 
tunity 1 

As  her  head  rested  on  my  lap,  a  voice 
whispered  in  my  ear  : 

"Your  rival  !  Retire  for  a  few  moments, 
in  search  of  hartshorn,  or  some  such  restora- 
tive, and  leave  the  fainting  one  in  my  care." 

I  raised  my  head  and  caught  the  eye  of 
Gerald  Dudley.  Only  a  single  look,  and  the 
fiend  was  in  my  heart.  I  rose  ;  the  fainting 
girl  fell  upon  the  floor  ;  I  hurried  from  the 
room,  and  did  not  pause  until  I  had  reached 
my  ov/n  chamber,  and  locked  the  door. 


Pressing  my  hands  now  on  my  burning  tem- 
ples, now  on  my  breast,  I  paced  the  floor, 
while,  perchance,  fifteen  minutes  —  they 
seemed  an  eternity  —  passed  away. 

Then  I  went  slowly  down  stairs,  and 
entered  the  back  parlor.  Gerald  was  there, 
standing  near  the  sofa ;  his  face  wearing  an 
insolent  scowl  of  triumph.  The  girl  was 
stretched  uj^on  the  sofa,  still  insensible,  but — 
I  dare  not  write  it — opposite  Gerald  stood 
Herman  Barnhurst,  who  had  followed  Fanny 
to  the  house,  and  arrived — too  late.  His 
face  was  bloodless. 

"  Oh,  villain !"  he  groaned,  as  his  mad- 
dened gaze  was  fixed  on  Dudley;  "  you  shall 
pay  for  this  with  your  blood — " 

"  Softly,  Reverend  Sir !  softly  !  One  word 
of  this,  and  the  world  shall  know  of  your 
amours  with  the  handsome  widow." 

Herman's  gaze  rested  on  my  face — 

"  You, — know — of — this  ?"  he  began,  with 
a  look  that  can  never  be  forgotten. 

"  Pardon,  Herman,  pardon  !  I  was  mad," 
I  shrieked,  flinging  myself  at  his  feet,  and 
clutching  his  knees. 

For  a  moment  he  gazed  upon  me,  and 
then,  lifting  his  clenched  right  hand,  he 
struck  me  on  the  forehead,  and  I  fell  insen- 
sible on  the  floor.  The  curse,  which  he  spoke 
as  I  fell,  rings  even  yet  in  my  ears. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

SUICIDE. 

Three  days  have  passed  since  then.  Such 
days  as  I  will  never  pass  again !  I  have 
just  learned  that  Gerald  Dudley  has  fled  the 
city.  His  purpose  to  obtain  Fanny's  hand  in 
marriage  by  first  accomplishing  her  shame, 
has  utterly  failed.  Her  father  knows  all, 
and  is  now  using  every  engine  of  his  wealth 
to  connect  my  name  with  the  crime  which 
has  damned  every  hope  of  his  idolized  child. 
And  he  will  succeed  !  I  feel  it ;  I  know  it ; 
my  presentiment  cannot  prove  false.  What 
shall  I  do  ? — whither  turn  ? 

And  Herman  is  a  raving  lunatic.  This  too 
is  my  work.  Yes,  yes,  I  am  resolved. — I  am 
resolved.  *  *  *  * 

To-morrow's  daAvn  will  bring  disgrace  and 
shame  to  me  ;  and,  in  the  future,  I  see  the 
crowded  court-house  —  the  mob,  eager  to 
drink  in  the  story  of  my  guilt, — and  the 


THE  DAWN,  SUNEISE  AND  DAY. 


223 


felon's  cell.    But  the  morrow's  dawn  I  shall 


never  see 


I  am  alone  in  my  chamber — the  very 
chamber  in  which  I  became  Burley's,  in  an 
unholy  marriage — Walter's,  in  the  marriage 
of  a  stainless  love — Herman's,  in  the  mad 
embrace  of  jjassion.  And  now,  0  Death  ! 
upon  that  marriage  couch,  I  am  about  to  wed 
thee  ! 

The  brazier  stands  in  the  center  of  the 
bridal  chamber ;  its  contents  were  ignited 
half  an  hour  ago ;  every  avenue  to  my 
chamber  is  carefully  closed ;  already  the 
fumes  of  the  burning  charcoal  begin  to  smite 
my  temples  and  my  heart. 

This  record,  written  from  time  to  time, 
and  now  concluded  by  a  hand  chilled  by 
death,  I  leave  to  my  only  living  relative, — 
not  as  an  apology  for  my  crimes,  but  as  an 
explanation  of  the  causes  which  led  me  to 
the  brink  of  this  awful  abyss. 

Air  !  air !  Burley,  for  thee  I  have  no 
remorse.  Let  the  branch  snap  ! — over  the 
cataract  with  thy  accursed  face  !  Thou  wert 
the  cause  of  all — thou  !  But,  Walter,  thy 
last  look  kills  my  soul. — Herman,  thy  curse 
is  on  me  !  And  poor  F^nny  !  Air  !  Light ! 
It  is  so  dark — dark ! — Oh  for  one  breath  of 
prayer ! 

CONCLUSION. 

The  preceding  confession,  signed  by  the 
tremulous  hand  of  the  poor  suicide,  was 
found  in  her  room,  with  the  senseless  corse, 
by  the  relative,  to  whom  she  addressed  it, 
and  who  adds  these  concluding  pages.  For 
days  after  the  event,  the  papers  were  filled 
with  paragraphs,  in  regard  to  the  melancholy 
affair.  A  single  one  extracted  from  a  promi- 
nent paper,  will  give  some  idea  of  the  tone 
of  the  public  mind  : 

Extract  from  a  New  YorJc  Paper. 
"tragedy  in  high  life. 
"  The  town  is  full  of  rumors,  in  regard  to 
a  mysterious  event,  or  series  of  events,  im- 
plicating a  member  of  one  of  the  first  fami- 
lies of  New  York.  These  rumors  are  sin- 
gularly startling,  and  although  they  have 
not  yet  assumed  a  definite  shape,  certainly  call 
for  a  judicial  investigation.  As  far  as  w' e  have 
been  able  to  sift  the  stories  now  afloat,  the 
plain  truth,  reduced  to  the  briefest  possible 
shape,  appears  to  be  as  follows  :     Some . 


years  since.  Miss  Marion  M  ,  daughter 

i  of  old  Mr.  M  ,  one  of  our  first  merchants. 

j  was,  while  under  an  engagement  of  marriage 

;  with  Walter  H  ,  forced  into  a  marriage 

I  with  Mr.  Issachar  B  ,  a  man  old  enough 

I  to  be  her  father,  who,  it  is  stated,  had  the 
father  absolutely  in  his  power.  The  mar- 
riage took  place,  but  not  long  afterward, 

B  ,  while  on  a  visit  to  Niagara,  was 

precipitated  over  the  Falls,  at  dead  of  night, 
in  a  manner  not  yet  satisfactorily  explained. 
Soon  afterward  the  young  widow,  then 
immensely  rich,  encountered  her  former 
betrothed,  and  the  fashionable  world  were 
soon  afterward  informed  of  their  marriage. 
A  year  passed,  and  Walter  H  ,  the  hus- 
band of  the  former  widow,  was  found  in  a 
distant  part  of  the  country,  mysteriously 
murdered,  it  was  not  known  by  whom,  al- 
though it  was  rumored  at  the  time,  that  the 
brother  of  a  wronged  sister,  was  on  that 
occasion  the  avenger  of  his  sister's  shame. 

The  beautiful  Mrs.  H  ,  was  once  more  a 

widow.  Here  it  might  seem  that  her  adven- 
tures, connected  so  strangely  with  the  death 
of  two  husbands,  had  reached  their  termina- 
tion. But  it  seems  she  was  soon  fascinated 
by  the  eloquence  of  a  young  man  and  pop- 
ular divine,  Eev.  H          B  .  While 

betrothed  to  Miss  Fanny  L  ,  daughter 

of  a  wealthy  member  of  his  congregation, 
the  eloquent  preacher  became  a  visitor  at 
the  house  of  the  rich  widow,  and  finally  his 
affections  became  entangled,  and  he  was 
forced  to  choose  between  said  widow  and 
his  betrothed.  He  sacrificed  his  affection 
for  the  former,  to  his  solemn  engagement 
with  the  latter.  The  'slighted'  widow,  en- 
dured the  usual  pangs  of  'desj^ised  love,' 
coupled  with  something  very  much  like 
Italian  jealousy,  or  rather  jealousy  after  the 
Italian  school.  The  betrothed  was  inveigled 
into  a  certain  house,  and  her  honor  sacrificed 
by  a  gentleman  of  fashion,  known  for  thirty 
years  as  a  constant  promenader,  on  the  west 

side  of  Broadway,  Mr.  Gerald  D  .  The 

widow  (strangest  freak  of  a  slighted  and 
vindictive  woman  !)  is  said  to  have  been  the 
planner  and  instigator  of  this  crime.  We 
have  now  arrived  at  the  sequel  of  the  story. 

Unable  to  obtain  the  hand  of  the  Bev.  H  

B  ,  and  stung  by  remorse,  for  her 

share  in  the  dishonor  of  his  betrothed,  the 


224 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY, 


•widow  put  a  period  to  her  own  existence,  in 
what  manner  is  not  exactly  known,  although 
conflicting  rumors  state  the  knife,  or  the 
poison  vial  was  the  instrument  of  her 
death.  No  coroner's  inquest  took  place. 
The  body  gave  no  signs  of  a  violent  death. 
"Disease  of  the  heart"  was  stated  in  the 
certificate  of  the  physician,  (how  compliant 
he  was  to  the  wishes  of  rich  survivors,  we 
will  not  say,)  as  the  cause  of  her  unexpected 
disease.  She  was  quietly  buried  in  the 
family  vault,  and  her  immense  estate  de- 
scends to  a  relative,  who  was  especially 
careful,  in  cloaking  over  the  fact  of  the  sui- 
cide. The  tragedy  involved  in  this  affair, 
will  be   complete,  when  we  inform  the 

reader,  that  Mr,  Gerald  D  ,  has  left 

the  city,  while  his  poor  victim,  Fanny  L  , 

tenants  the  cell  of  an  asylum  for  the  insane. 
Altogether,  this  affair  is  one  of  the  wildest 
exaggerations,  or  one  of  the  most  painful 
tragedies,  that  ever  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  press, 
to  record.  Can  it  be  believed  that  a  young 
lady,  honorably  reared,  would  put  a  period 
to  the  lives  of  two  husbands,  then  procure 
the  dishonor  of  a  rival,  who  interposed 
between  her  and  a  third  *  husband?'  Verily, 
*  fact  is  stranger  than  fiction,'  and  every  day, 
reality  more  improbable  than  the  -wildest 
dreams  of  romance.  The  truth  will  not  be 
known  until  the  Confession,  said  to  he  left 
hy  the  young  loidow,  makes  its  appearance. 
But  will  it  appear  ?  we  shall  see." 

So  much  for  the  public  press. 

The  reader  can  contrast  its  rumors,  with 
the  facts  of  the  case,  as  plainly  set  forth  in 
the  previous  confession,  penned  by  the  hand 
of  the  unfortunate  and  guilty  Marion  Mer- 
lin. 

A  few  words  more  will  close  this  painful 
narrative.  Marion  was  quietly  and  honor- 
ably buried.  Her  relatives  were  wealthy 
and  powerful.  The  *  physician's  certificate' 
enabled  them  to  avoid  the  painful  formality 
of  a  coroner's  inquest.  She  sleeps  beside  her 
husband,  Walter  Howard,  in  Greenwood 
Cemetery. 

Soon  after  her  decease,  Mr.  Lansdale  sold 
all  his  property  in  New  York,  and  with  his 
daughter  disappeared  completely  from  pub- 
lic view. 

Herman  Barnhurst  remained  in  the  Lu- 


^  natic  Asylum  for  more  than  a  year,  when 
,  he  was  released,  his  intellect  restored,  but 
'  his  health  (it  is  stated)  irretrievably  broken. 
After  his  release,  he  left  New  York,  and  his 
name  was  soon  forgotten,  or  if  mentioned  at 
all,  only  as  that  of  a  person  long  since  dead. 

Gerald  Dudlej'-,  after  various  adventures, 
^  in  Texas  and  Mexico,  suffered  at  the  hands 
of  J udge  Lynch,  near  San  Antonio. 

About  a  year  after  the  death  of  Marion 
Merlin,  a  young  man  in  moderate  circum- 
stances, accompanied  by  his  wife,  (a  pale, 
,  faded,  though  interesting  woman)  and  her 

aged  father  took  up  his  residence  in  C  

a  pleasant  village  in  south-western  Pennsyl- 
vania. They  were  secluded  in  their  habits, 
and  held  but  little  intercourse  with  the 
other  villagers.  The  husband  passed  by  the 
name  of  Wilton,  which  (for  all  that  the 
villagers  knew  to  the  contrary,)  was  his  real 
name. 

One  winter  evening,  as  the  family  were 
gathered  about  the  open  wood-fire,  a  sleigh 
halted  at  the  door,  and  a  visitor  appeared  in 
the  person  of  a  middle-aged  man,  who 
came  unbidden  into  the  room,  shaking  the 
snow  from  his  great  coat,  and  seating  himself 
in  the  midst  of  the  family.  Regarding  for  a 
moment  the  face  of  the  aged  father,  and 
then  the  countenance  of  the  young  husband 
and  wife,  which  alike  in  their  pallor,  seemed 
to  bear  the  traces  of  an  irrevocable  calamity, 
the  visitor  said  quietly, — 

"  Herman  Barnhurst,  I  am  the  relative  to 
whom  Marion  Merlin  addressed  her  confes- 
sion, and  whom  she  invested  with  the  trus- 
teeship of  her  estate." 

Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  into  the  midst  of 
the  party,  it  would  not  have  created  so  much 
consternation,  as  these  few  words  from  the 
lips  of  the  visitor.  The  young  wife  shrieked, 
the  old  man  started  from  his  chair ;  Herman 
Barnhurst,  (otherwise  called  Mr.  Wilton,) 
with  the  blood  rushing  to  his  pale  face,  said 
simply,  "  That  accursed  woman  !" 

"I  hold  her  last  Will  and  Testament  in 
my  hand,"  continued  the  visitor  :  "  I  am  her 
nearest  relative,  and  would  inherit  her  estate, 
but  for  this  will,  by  which  she  names  you 
and  your  wife  Fanny,  as  the  sole  heirs  of  Jier 
immense  property." 

Herman  took  the  Will  from  the  visitor's 
hands. 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


225 


"As  administrator  of  her  estate,  I  am  here 
to  surrender  it  into  your  hands.  The  will 
was  made  as  a  small  atonement  for  the  injury 
she  caused  you." 

Herman  quietly  dropped  the  parchment 
into  the  fire  : 

"Her  money  and  her  memory  are  alike 
accursed.  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
either." 

That  night  the  relative  turned  his  face 
eastward,  to  take  possession  of  the  estate  of 
Marion  Merlin. 

And  beneath  this,  in  a  different  hand^  icas 
added  the  following  singular  narrative: 


CHAPTER  XY. 

AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF  MARION. 

A  PLEASANT  place,  in  summer  time,  was 
the  country-mansion  of  the  celebrated  Doctor 

N  ,  situated  upon  the  heights  of  Wee- 

hawken,  about  one  mile  from  the  Hudson 
River.  A  huge  edifice  of  brick,  separated 
from  the  high  road  by  a  garden,  it  was  sur- 
rounded by  tall  trees,  whose  branches  over- 
hung its  steep  roof,  and  relieved  by  the 
background  of  the  rich  foliage  and  blossoms 
of  the  orchard  trees.  A  pleasant  place,  in 
summer,  was  the  mansion  of  the  celebrated 
Doctor,  but  lonely  enough,  and  desolate 
enough  in  winter.  On  this  drear  winter 
night,  it  looks  sad  and  desolate  as  the  grave. 
The  sky  above  it  is  leaden,  the  trees  around 
it  are  leafless,  the  garden  white  with  snow, 
and  the  bitter  wind  howls  dismally  over 
the  waste  of  snow,  which  clothes  the  adjacent 
fields.  In  the  distance,  the  Hudson  glitters 
dimly,  white  and  cold,  with  fields  of  floating 
ice.  It  is  near  morning,  and  but  a  single 
room  in  the  vast  country  mansion  is  tenanted. 
You  can  see  a  light  trembling  faintly  through 
the  half  vailed  window  yonder  ;  the  win- 
dow near  the  roof,  in  the  southern  wing. 

It  is  near  morning ;  but  one  person  by  a 
solitary  light,  keeps  his  vigil  in  the  deserted 
mansion  ;  a  sleigh  drawn  by  a  single  horse, 
(he  has  been  driven  hard,  for  there  is  foam 
upon  his  flanks)  and  moving  noiselessly, 
without  the  sound  of  bells  stops  at  the  gar- 
den gate.    Two  persons,  whose  forms  are 


the  brows,  dismount  and  pass  along  the  gar- 
den walk,  bearing  a  burden  on  their  shouU 
ders.  They  ascend  the  steps  of  the  porch, 
and  stand  in  front  of  the  hall  door,  looking 
anxiously  about  them,  as  if  to  assure  them- 
selves, their  movements  were  not  observed. 

"  So  far  safe  enough, — "  exclaims  one  in  a 
hoarse  voice,  "the  next  thing  is  to  get  it  up 
stairs."  And  he  places  a  key  in  the  lock  of 
the  door. 

Meanwhile  the  light,  which  trembling 
outward  from  yonder  window,  shines  redly 
over  the  frozen  snow,  shines  within  upon  the 
face  of  the  lonely  watcher.  A  young  man 
sits  beside  a  table,  reading  by  the  light  of  a 
clouded  lamp,  his  cheeks  resting  on  his 
hands,  and  his  gaze  riveted  upon  the  large 
volume,  spread  open  before  him.  The  light 
falls  brightly  upon  the  book,  leaving  his 
features  in  half  twilight,  but  still  you  can 
trace  the  outlines  of  his  face, — the  enthu- 
siasm of  his  fixed  eyes, — the  energy  of  his 
broad  bold  forehead.  It  is  a  small  and  com- 
fortable apartment  ;  near  him  a  wood-fire  is 
burning,  on  the  open  hearth ;  opposite  him 
a  sofa,  and  a  range  of  shelves,  filled  with 
books,  and  upon  the  green  cloth  of  the  table 
by  which  he  is  seated,  you  discover  a  sort  of 
semicircle  of  open  volumes, — placed  there 
evidently  for  reference, — a  mass  of  carelessly 
strewn  manuscripts,  and  a  case  of  surgical 
instruments. 

Arthur  Conroy,  the  favorite  student  of  the 
celebrated  Doctor, — a  student,  whose  organi- 
zation combines  the  exactness  and  untiring 
industry  of  the  man  of  science,  with  the  rich 
enthusiasm  of  the  poet, — is  the  only  tenant  of 
the  mansion,  during  the  dreary  winter.  He 
is  not  seen  during  the  day,  but  every  night, 
arriving  from  New  York,  after  dark,  he 
builds  his  fire,  lights  his  candle,  and  com- 
mences his  lonely  vigil.  Sometimes,  late  at 
night,  he  is  joined  by  the  grave  Doctor  him- 
self, and  they  pursue  their  researches  toge- 
ther. What  manner  of  researches?  We  can- 
not tell ;  but  there  is  a  rumor,  that  one 
apartment  of  the  huge  mansion  is  used,  in 
winter  time,  as  a  Dissecting-Room,  And 
the  light  streaming  night  after  night,  from 
the  window  near  the  roof,  strikes  the  lonely 
wayfarer  with  a  sensation,  in  some  manner, 
associated  with  ghosts,  witches,  and  dealings 


wrapped  in  thick  overcoats,  and  whose  faces 
are  concealed  by  fur  caps,  drawn  low  over  j  with  the  devil  in  general. 


226 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


Arthur  is  ambitious  ;  even  while  his  mind 
is  wrapt  in  the  mazes  of  a  scientific  prob- 
lem, he  thinks  of  his  widowed  mother  and 
orphan  sisters  far  away  in  the  great  village 
near  Seneca  lake,  and  his  pulse  beats  quicker, 
as  he  looks  forward  to  the  day  when  their 
ears  shall  be  gree;;ed  by  the  tidings  of  his 
world-wide  fame.  For  he  has  determined  to 
be  a  surgeon,  and  a  master  in  his  art ;  he 
has  the  will  and  the  genius  ;  he  will  accom- 
plish what  he  wills. 

He  raises  his  eyes  from  his  book, — they 
are  glittering  with  the  clear  light  of  intense 
thought, — and  unconsciously  begins  to  think 
aloud. 

"  Do  the  dead  return  ?  Are  the  dead  in- 
deed dead?  You  have  nailed  down  the 
coffin-lid  ;  you  have  seen  the  coffin  as  it 
sunk  into  the  grave ;  you  have  heard  the 
rattling  of  the  clod, — but  is  that  all  ?  Is  the 
beloved  one  whom  you  have  given  to  the 
grave,  indeed  dead,  or  only  more  truly  living 
in  a  new  body,  formed  of  refined  matter, 
invisible  to  our  gross  organs  ?  Is  that  which 
we  call  soul,  only  the  result  of  a  particular 
organization  of  gross  matter,  or  is  it  the  real, 
eternal  substance  of  which  all  other  matter 
is  but  the  servant  and  the  expression  ?  Do 
the  dead  return  ?  Do  those  whose  faces  we 
have  seen  for  the  last  time,  ere  the  coffin-lid 
closed  upon  them  forever,  ever  come  back  to 
us,  clad  in  spiritual  bodies,  and  addressing  us, 
not  through  our  external  organs,  but  by  di- 
rectly impressing  that  divine  substance  in  us, 
which  is  like  unto  them, — that  which  we  call 
our  SOUL  ?" 

It  was  a  thought  which  for  ages  has  mado 
•the  hearts  of  the  noblest  and  truest  of  our 
race,  alternately  combat  with  despair,  and 
swell  with  hope, — that  thought  which  seeks 
to  unvail  the  mystery  of  Life  and  Death, 
disclose  the  tie  which  connects  perishable 
matter  with  eternal  mind,  and  lift  the  cur- 
tain which  hides  from  the  present,  the  other 
world. 

Arthur  felt  the  vast  thought  gather  all  his 
soul  into  its  embrace.  But  his  meditations 
were  interrupted  by  the  opening  of  the  door, 
and  the  two  men, — whom  we  saw  dismount 
from  the  sleigh, — entered  the  room  of  the 
student,  bearing  in  their  arms  the  burden, 
which  was  covered  by  folds  of  coarse  canvas. 

Very  ungainly  men  they  were,  with  their 


brawny  forms  wrapped  in  huge  gray  over- 
coats, adorned  with  white  buttons,  and  their 
harsh  visages  half  concealed  by  their  coarse 
fur  caps.  They  came  into  the  room  without 
a  word. 

"  0,  you  have  come,"  said  xirthur,  as  if  he 
recognized  persons  by  no  means  strangers  to 
him.  "Have  you  the  particular  subject 
which  the  doctor  desired  you  to  pro- 
cure ?" 

"  Jist  that  partikler  subject,"  said  one  of 
the  twain, — "  an'  a  devil  of  a  time  we've 
had  to  git  it !  Fust  we  entered  the  vault  at 
Greenwood,  with  a  false  key,  and  then 
opened  the  coffin,  so  as  it  '11  never  be  known 
that  it  was  opened  at  all.  Closed  the  vault 
ag'in  and  got  the  body  over  the  wall,  and  hid 
it  in  the  bottom  of  the  sleigh.  Crossed  the 
ferry  at  Brooklyn — went  through  the  city, 
and  then  took  the  ferry  for  Hoboken, — same 
sleigh,  and  same  subject  in  the  bottom  of  it ; 
an'  druv  here  with  a  blast  in  our  face,  sharp 
as  a  dozen  butcher  knives." 

"But  if  it  had  not  a-been  for  the  storm, 
we  wouldn't  a-got  the  body,"  interrupted  the 
other. 

"And  here  we  aiV,  and  here  it  is,  and 
that's  enough.   What  shall  we  do  with  it  ?" 

Arthur  opened  a  small  door  near  the  book- 
case, and  a  narrow  stairway  (leading  up  into 
the  garret)  was  disclosed. 

"  You  know  the  way,"  he  said.  "  When 
you  get  up  there  place  it  on  the  table." 

They  obeyed  without  a  word.  Bearing 
their  burden  slowly  through  the  narrow  door- 
way, they  disappeared,  and  the  echo  of  their 
heavy  boots  was  heard  on  the  stairway. 
They  were  not  long  absent.  After  a  few 
moments  they  again  appeared,  and  the  one 
who  had  acted  as  principal  spokesman,  held 
out  his  open  palm  toward  Arthur, — 

"  Double  allowance  to-night,  you  know," 
he  said, — "  Doctor  generally  gives  us  from 
forty  to  sixty  dollars  a  job,  but  this  partikler 
case  axes  for  ten  gold  pieces, — spread  eagles, 
you  know,  wuth  ten  dollars  apiece, — only  a 
hundred  dollars  in  all.    Shell  out !" 

Arthur  quietly  placed  ten  gold  pieces  in 
the  hands  of  the  ruffian.—"  The  doctor  left 
it  for  you.    Now  go." 

And  shuffling  their  heavy  boots,  they  dis- 
appeared through  the  same  door  by  which 
they  had  entered.     Looking  through  tho 


\ 


THE  DAW]<r,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


227 


window  after  a  few  moments,  he  saw  the  sleigh 
moving  noiselessly  down  the  public  road. 

"Dangerous  experiment  for  the  doctor, 
especially  if  the  event  of  this  night  should 
happen  to  be  discovered,"  ejaculated  Arthur, 
as  he  rebuilt  his  fire.  "  A  peculiar  case  of 
suicide,  and  he  wished  the  hody  at  all  haz- 
ards.   Well  !  I  must  to  work." 

He  drew  on  an  apron  of  dark  muslin, 
which  was  provided  with  sleeves,  and  then 
lifting  the  shade  from  the  lamp,  he  lighted 
a  cigar.  As  the  smoke  of  the  grateful  Ha- 
vana rolled  through  his  apartment,  he  took 
the  lamp  in  one  hand,  and  a  case  of  instru- 
ments in  the  other,  and  ascended  the  secret 
stairway  leading  to  the  garret. 

"I  have  seen  her  when  living,  arrayed  in 
all  the  pride  of  youth  and  beauty,"  he  said, 
as  the  lamp  shone  upon  the  vast  and  gloomy 
garret, — "  and  now  let  me  look  upon  the  shell 
which  so  lately  held  that  passionate  soul." 

It  was  indeed  a  vast  and  gloomy  garret. 
It  traversed  the  entire  extent  of  the  southern 
wing.  The  windows  at  either  end  were 
carefully  darkened.  The  ceiling  was  formed 
by  the  huge  rafters  and  bare  shingles  of  the 
steep  roof.  To  one  of  these  rafters  a  human 
skeleton  was  suspended,  its  white  bones 
glaring  amid  the  darkness.  In  the  center 
was  a  large  table,  upon  which  was  placed  the 
burden  which  the  ruffians  had  that  night 
stolen  from  the  grave.  The  place  was 
silent,  lonely, — the  wind  howled  dismally 
among  the  chimneys, — and  Arthur  could 
not  repress  a  slight  shudder  as  his  footsteps 
eohoed  from  the  naked  floor.  Arthur  placed 
the  lamp  upon  the  table,  and  began  to  uncover 
the  subject.  Removing  the  coarse  canvas 
he  disclosed  the  corpse.  An  ejaculation 
burst  from  his  lips, — a  cry  half  of  terror, 
half  of  surprise. 

The  light  shone  upon  the  body  of  a  beau- 
tiful woman.  From  those  faultless  limbs 
and  that  snowy  bosom  the  grave-clothes  had 
been  carefully  stripped.  A  single  fragment 
of  the  shroud  fluttered  around  the  right  arm. 
Save  this  fragment  the  body  was  completely 
bare,  and  the  dark  hair  of  the  dead  fell 
loosely  on  her  shoulders.  The  face  was  very 
beautiful  and  calm,  as  though  sealed  only 
for  an  hour  in  a  quiet  sleep, — the  fringes  of 
the  eyelashes  rested  darkly  upon  the  cheeks. 
Never  had  the  light  shone  upon  a  shape  of 


more  surpassing  loveliness,  upon  limbs  more 
like  ivory  in  their  snowy  v/hiteness,  upon  a 
face  more  like  a  dreamless  slumber,  in  its 
calm,  beautiful  expression.  Dead,  and  yet 
very  beautiful !  A  proud  soul  dwelt  in  this 
casket  once, — the  soul  has  fled,  and  now  the 
casket  must  be  surrendered  to  the  scalpel, — 
must  be  cut  and  rent,  shred  by  shred,  by  the 
dissector's  hand. 

"But  the  limbs  are  not  rigid  with  death," 
soliloquized  Arthur, — "Decay  has  not  yet 
commenced  its  work.  As  I  live,  there  is  a 
glow  upon  the  check." 

With  his  scalpel  he  inflicted  a  gash  near 
the  right  temple,  and  at  the  same  instant, — 
imagining  he  heard  a  footstep, — he  turned 
his  face  over  his  shoulder.  It  was  only 
imagination,  and  he  turned  again  to  trace  the 
result  of  the  incision. 

The  dead  woman  was  in  a  sitting  posture,  her 
arms  were  folded  over  her  breast  ;  her  eyes 
were  wide  open/shc  was  gazing  calmly  into 
his  face.  Arthur  fell  back  Avith  a  cry  of  horror. 

"Nay,  do  not  be  frightened,"  said  a  low, 
although  tremulous  voice, — "  I  have  simply 
been  the  victim  of  an  attack  of  catalepsy." 

And  while  he  stood  spell-bound,  his  eyes 
riveted  to  her  face,  and  his  ears  drinking  in  the 
rich  music  of  her  voice,  she  continued, — 

"  Catalepsy,  which  leaves  the  soul  keenly 
conscious  and  in  possession  of  all  its  powers, 
but  without  the  slightest  control  over  the 
body,  which  appears  insensible  and  dead. 
The  agony  of  that  state  is  beyond  all  power 
of  words  !  To  hear  the  voices  which  speak 
over  your  cofiin,  and  yet  be  unable  to  frame 
a  word,  to  breathe  even  a  sigh  !  I  heard 
them  talk  over  my  coffin, — I  was  conscious 
as  the  lid  closed  down  upon  my  face, — con- 
scious when  they  placed  me  in  the  vault, 
and  locked  the  door,  and  left  me  there 
buried  alive.  And  an  eternity  seemed  to 
pass  from  the  time  when  they  locked  the 
door,  (I  was  only  buried  yesterday,)  until 
your  men  came  to-night,  to  rob  the  grave  of 
its  prey.  I  heard  every  word  they  uttered 
from  the  moment  when  they  tore  the  shroud 
from  my  bosom,  until  they  entered  your 
room,  and  then  I  heard  your  voice.  And 
when  they  left  me  here,  I  heard  your  step 
upon  the  stair,  heard  your  ejaculation  as  you 
bent  over  me,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  my 
soul  made  its  last  etiort  to  arouse  from  thia 


228 


THE  DAWN,  SUNRISE  AND  DAY. 


unutterable  living  death,  as  you  struck  the 
knife  into  my  temple.  You  have  saved 
■my  life  " 

Arthur  couUi  not  utter  a  word  ;  he  could 
not  believe  the  scene  to  be  real ;  he  thought 
himself  the  victim  of  a  terrible  although  be- 
witching dream. 

"I  arise  from  the  grave,  but  it  is  to  begin 
life  anew.  The  name  which  I  bore  lies 
buried  in  the  grave  vault.  It  is  with  a  new 
name,  and  under  new  auspices,  that  I  will 
recommence  life.  And  as  for  you,  I  know 
you  to  be  young,  gifted,  ambitious.  I  will 
show  my  gratitude  by  making  your  fortune. 
But  you  must  swear,  and  now,  never  to  re- 
veal the  secret  of  this  night ! " 

"I  swear  it,"  ejaculated  Arthur,  still  pale 
and  trembling. 

"  What,  are  you  still  afraid  of  me  ?  Come 
near  me, — nearer, — take  my  hand,  —  does 
that, — "  and  a  bewitchi'rt^J  smile  crossed  her 
face, — "  does  that  feel  like  the  hand  of  a 
dead  woman  ?" 

With  these  words  the  history  of  Marion 
came  to  a  pause. 

For  the  first  time,  Arthur  Dermoyne  raised 
his  eyes  from  the  pages  which  recorded  the 
life  of  Marion  Merlin.  For  an  hour  and 
more  he  had  bent  over  those  pages  in  pro- 
found and  absorbing  interest. 

"  Here,  then,  is  the  real  secret  of  the  life 
of  Herman  Barnhurst !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  He 
was  simply  a  sincere  enthusiast,  all  his  bad 
nature  dormant,  and  all  his  good  in  active 
life,  until  this  woman  crossed  his  path.  And 
the  wife  who  now  slumbers  by  his  side,  is 
none  other  than  Fannj^  Lansdale,  the  vic- 
tim of  the  imutterable  crime.  Who  shall 
say  that  we  are  not,  in  a  great  measure, 
the  sport  of  circumstance  ?  IIow  different 
would  have  been  the  life  of  Herman,  had 
Marion  never  crossed  his  path  ?  " 

Something  like  pity  for  the  crimes  of 
Barnhurst  began  to  steal  over  Dermoyne's 
face,  as  he  sat  thus  alone,  in  the  solitude 
of  the  last  hour  of  the  night;  but  the 
thoughts  of  Alice,  on  her  bed  of  shame  and 
anguish,  started  up  like  a  phantom  and  drove 
every  throb  of  compassion  from  his  soul. 

"If  Alice  dies,  there  is  but  cuie  wa}'," — 
he  said  moodily,  with  a  fixed  light  in  his 
eyes — "But  this  Marion, — ah!  Something 


more  of  her  history  is  written  here.  Let 
me  read, — "  Once  more  he  bent  over  the 
Red  Book.  Even  as  his  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  page,  a  shadow  was  cast  over  it, 
and  then  a  dark  object  interposed  between 
him  and  the  light ;  and  the  next  moment 
all  was  darkness.  But  on  the  instant,  be- 
fore the  darkness  came,  he  looked  up,  and 
saw  before  him  a  brawny  form,  a  face 
stamped  with  ferocious  brutality ;  an  up- 
raised hand  grasping  a  knife,  which  glit- 
tered as  it  rose.  This  he  saw  for  an  in- 
stant only,  and  then  all  was  blackness. 

"  Not  wid  de  knife.  Dirk  !  Let  me  fix  him 
wid  dis, — and  do  yer  see  to  de  Red  Book  ! " 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  a  Aveapon  whiz- 
zing through  the  air,  and  Dermoyne  was 
felled  to  the  floor  by  a  blow  from  the 
"  Slung-shot." 

As  the  first  gleam  of  morning  stole  into 
the  bed-chamber,  touching,  with  rosy  light, 
the  faces  of  the  sleeping  wife  and  her  chil- 
dren, Barnhurst  stealthily  arose,  dressed  him- 
self, and  stole  on  tiptoe  from  the  place.  In 
the  dark  he  descended  the  stairway,  and  all 
the  while, — from  loss  of  sleep,  combined 
with  the  excitement  of  the  past  night, — he 
shook  in  every  nerve.  His  thoughts  were 
black  and  desperate. 

"  Ruin  wherever  I  turn  !  If  I  escape  this 
man,  there  remains  the  villain  whom  I  met 
last  night,  in  Trinity  Church.  On  one  side 
exposure,  on  the  other  death.  What  can  be 
done  ?  Cut  the  matter  short,  and  renouncing 
all  my  prospects,  seek  safety  in  flight  ?  or 
remain, — dare  all  the  chances, —  exposure, — 
the  death  of  a  dog, — all, — and  trust  to  my 
good  fortune  ?  " 

He  paused  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway,  and 
a  hope  shot  through  his  heart, — "  If  I  could 
see  GoDiVA  all  might  yet  be  well  !  Yes,  I 
must,  I  will  see  Godiva." 

Uttering  the  name  of  Godiva,  (new  to 
the  reader  and  to  our  history,)  he  approached 
the  parlor  door.  "Now  for  this  man  !"  he 
said,  and  shuddered.  He  opened  the  door, 
and  looked  ai'ound  ;  the  first  rays  of  morning 
were  stealing  through  the  window-curtains, 
but  the  room  Avas  vacant.  Dermoyne  was 
not  there.  The  carpet  was  torn  near  the 
sofa,  the  table  overturned,  and  there  was 
blood  upon  the  carpet  and  sofa.  But  Der- 
moyne had  disappeared. 


N  E  ¥  YORK: 

IT8 

UPPER-TEN  AND  LOWER  MILLION. 


PART  SIXTH. 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 

DECEMBER  24,  1844. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ARRAYED  FOR  THE  BRIDAL. 

It  was  toward  evening,  when,  amid  the 
crowd  of  Broadway — that  crowd  of  mad 
and  impetuous  life  —  there  glided,  like  a 
specter  through  the  mazes  of  a  voluptuous 
dance,  a  man  of  sober  habit,  pallid  face,  and 
downcast  eyes.  Beautiful  women,  wrapped 
in  soft  attire,  passed  him  every  moment ; 
brushed  him  with  their  perfumed  garments ; 
but  he  heeded  them  not.  There  was  the 
free  laugh,  the  buzz  of  voices,  and  the  tramp 
of  footsteps  all  about  him,  but  he  did  not 
raise  his  eyes,  nor  bend  his  ear.  Gliding 
along  in  his  dark  habit,  he  was  as  much 
altine  on  that  thronged  pathway,  as  though 
he  walked  the  sands  of  an  Arabian  desert.  A 
man  of  hollow  cheeks,  features  boldly 
marked,  and  eyes  large  and  dark,  and  shin- 
ing with  the  fire  of  disease,  or  with  the 
restlessness  of  a  soul  that  had  turned  upon 
itself,  and  was  gnawing  ever  and  ever  at  its 
own  life-strings. 

His  habit  —  a  long  black  coat,  single 
breasted,  and  with  a  plain  white  band  about 
the  neck  —  indicated  that  he  was  a  Catholic 
Priest. 

He  was  a  Priest.  Struck  down  in  his  early 
manhood  by  an  irreparable  calamity,  he  had 
looked  all  around  the  horizon  of  his  life  for 
— peace.  Repose,  repose — a  quiet  life — an 
obscure  grave  —  became  the  objects  of  his 
soul's  desire,  instead  of  the  ambitions  which 
his  young  manhood  had  cherished. 

As  there  was  not  peace  within  him,  so  he 
searched  the  world  for  it,  and  in  vain. 

He  sought  it  in  a  money-bound  Protestant 
church,  behind  whose  pulpit-bible — like  a  j 
toad  upon  an  altar — Mammon,  holy  mam- 1 


mon,  squats  in  bank-note  grandeur.  And 
there,  he  found  money,  and  much  cant,  and 
abundance  of  sect, — but  no  peace. 

To  the  Catholic  church  he  turned.  Won 
by  the  poetry  of  that  church  —  we  use  the 
word  in  its  awful  and  intense  sense,  for 
poetry  and  religion  are  one  —  and,  forgetful 
of  the  infernal  deeds  which  demoniacs,  in 
jDurple  and  scarlet,  have  done  in  the  name 
of  that  church,  tracking  their  footsteps  over 
half  the  globe  in  blood,  and  lighting  up  the 
history  of  ten  centuries,  at  least,  with  flames 
of  persecution, — won  by  all  that  is  good  and 
true  in  that  church,  (which  he  forgot  is  good 
and  true  under  whatsoever  form  it  occurs,) — 
he  sought  repose  in  its  bosom. 

Did  he  find  it  ?  He  found  good  and  true 
men  among  priests  and  people  ;  he  found 
noble  and  pure  women,  in  the  valleys  of  the 
church;  but,  lifting  his  eyes  to  her  lofty  emi- 
nence, he  too  often  saw  purpled  and  mitred 
atheists,  who,  from  their  thrones,  made  sport 
of  human  misery,  and  converted  Christ  the 
Savior  into  the  Fetish  of  a  brutal  super- 
stition. 

He  had  been  to  Rome  ;  in  Rome  he  saw 
the  seamless  coat  of  Christ  made  a  cloak  for 
every  outrage  that  can  be  inflicted  upon  the 
human  race. 

Did  he  find  peace  ?  Yes,  when  vailing 
his  eyes  from  the  atrocities  done  in  the  name 
of  the  church,  turning  himself  away  from 
the  scarlet-clad  atheists,  who  too  often  mount 
her  seats  of  power,  he  retreated  within  him- 
self, opened  the  gospels,  and  from  their  pages 
saw  kindle  into  life  and  love,  the  face  of 
Him,  whom  priests  may  misinterpret  or  de- 
fame, but  whose  name  forever,  to  suffering 
humanity,  is  "  consolation." 

As  he  passed  thus  along  Broadway,  buried 


230 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


ill  his  thoughts,  and  utterly  unconscious  of 
the  scene  around  him,  he  felt  a  hand  press 
his  own.  He  awoke  from  his  thoughts, 
slopped  and  looked  around  him.  The  crowd 
>vas  hurrying  by,  but  the  person  v/ho  pressed 
his  hand  had  disappeared.  Was  that  pressure 
of  the  hand  a  mere  freak  of  the  imagina- 
tion ?  No ;  for  the  hand  of  the  unknown 
had  left  within  the  hand  of  the  Priest  a 
neatly-folded  letter,  upon  which,  in  a  fair 
and  delicate  hand,  was  written  his  own 
name. 

Stepping  aside  from  the  crowd,  he  opened 
and  read  the  letter.  It  was  very  brief,  but 
its  contents  called  a  glo\v  to  the  pale  cheek 
of  the  Priest. 

He  at  once  retraced  his  steps,  and  passed 
down  Broadway,  with  a  rapid  and  eager 
step.  Hurrying  through  the  gay  crowd,  he 
turned,  in  a  few  moments,  into  a  street  lead- 
ing to  the  North  River.  The  sun  Avas  set- 
ting, and  cast  the  shadow  of  his  slender  form 
long  and  black  over  the  pavement,  as  he 
paused  in  front  of  a  stately  mansion.  He 
once  more  examined  the  letter,  and  then 
surveyed  the  mansion. 

"It  is  the  same,"  he  said,  and  ascended 
the  lofty  steps  and  rang  the  bell.  "  Truly, 
the  office  of  a  Priest  is  a  painful  one,"  the 
thought  crossed  his  mind  ;  "  he  sees  so  much 
misery  that  he  has  not  the  power  to  relieve. 
Misery,  under  the  rags  of  the  hovel,  and 
despair  under  the  velvet  of  the  palace." 

A  male  servant,  in  livery,  answered  the 
bell,  and  glanced  somewhat  superciliously  at 
the  faded  attire  of  the  Priest.  But  he  in- 
clined his  head  in  involuntary  respect,  as  the 
Priest  said,  simply — 

I  am  Father  Luke,—" 

"  This  way,  sir.  You  are  expected,"  an- 
swered the  servant ;  and  he  led  Father  Luke 
along  a  lofty  hall,  and  into  a  parlor,  over 
whose  rich  furniture  shone  dimly  the  light 
of  the  setting  sun.  Remain  here,  sir,  and 
I  will  announce  your  coming." 

He  left  the  Priest  alone.  Father  Luke 
placed  his  hat  upon  a  table,  and  seated  him- 
self in  a  chair.  In  a  moment,  resting  his 
cheek  upon  his  hand,  and  turning  his  eyes 
to  the  light,  (which  shone  through  the  cur- 
tained window,)  he  was  buried  in  thought 
again.  His  singular  and  remarkable  face  stood 
forth  from  the  back-ground  of  shadow  like  a 


portrait  of  another  age.  His  crown  was  bald, 
but  his  forehead  was  encircled  by  dark  hair, 
streaked  with  silver.  As  the  light  shone  over 
that  broad  brow,  and  upon  the  great  eyes,  di- 
lating in  their  sunken  sockets,  he  seemed  not 
like  a  practical  man  of  the  nineteenth  centur}-, 
but  like  one  of  those  penitents  or  enthusi- 
asts, who,  in  a  dark  age,  shut  up  the  fires  of 
their  agony,  of  trampled  hope  or  undying 
remorse,  within  the  shadows  of  a  cloister. 

"  This  way,  sir," — it  was  the  voice  of  the 
servant,  who  touched  him  respectfully  on 
the  shoulder  as  he  spoke. 

Father  Luke  arose  and  followed  him  from 
the  room,  and  up  a  broad  stairway,  and  along 
a  corridor  :  "  At  the  end  of  this  passage 
you  will  find  a  door.  Open  it  and  enter. 
You  are  expected  there." 

Passing  from  the  corridor,  lighted  by  the 
window  at  its  extremity,  the  Priest  entered 
a  narrow  passage  where  all  was  dark,  and 
pursued  his  way  until  his  progress  was  ter- 
minated by  a  door.  He  opened  the  door  and 
crossed  the  threshold — but,  upon  the  very 
threshold,  stood  spell-bound  in  surprise. 

It  was  a  large  apartment,  with  lofty  walls, 
and,  instead  of  the  cheerful  rays  of  the  de- 
clining sun,  it  was  illuminated  by  a  lamp 
with  a  clouded  shade,  which,  suspended  f]?pm 
the  center  of  the  ceiling,  shed  around  a-&(5ft 
and  mysterious  light. 

The  walls  were  not  papered  nor  panneled, 
but  covered  with  hangings  of  a  dark  color. 
One  part  of  the  spacious  chamber  was  occu- 
pied by  a  couch  with  a  high  canopy,  and 
curtains  whose  snowy  whiteness  stood  out 
distinctly  from  the  dark  back-ground.  A 
wood  fire  was  burning  under  the  arch  of  the 
old-fashioned  fire-place  ;  and  a  mirror,  in  a 
frame  of  dark  walnut,  reflected  the  couch 
with  its  white  canopy,  and  a  table  covered 
with  a  white  cloth,  which  stood  directly 
underneath  the  hanging  lamp.  Upon  the 
white  cloth  was  placed  a  crucifix,  a  book,  a 
wreath  of  flowers. 

The  place  was  perfectly  still,  and  the  soft 
rays  of  the  lamp,  investing  all  its  details 
with  mingled  light  and  shadow,  gave  an 
atmosphere  of  mystery  to  the  scene. 

Father  Luke  stood  on  the  threshold,  hesi- 
tating whether  to  advance  or  retreat,  when 
a  low  voice  broke  the  stillness  : 

"  Come  in,  sir.    I  have  waited  for  you." 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


231 


And  for  the  first  time  Father  Luke  took 
notice  of  the  presence  of  the  speaker.  It  was 
a  woman,  who,  attired  in  black,  sat  in  a 
rocking-chair,  near  the  table,  her  hands 
folded  over  her  breast.  Her  head  and  face 
were  covered  by  a  thick  vail  of  white  lace, 
which  fell  to  her  shoulders,  contrasting 
strongly  with  her  somber  attire. 

Father  Luke  entered  and  seated  himself 
in  a  vacant  chair,  which  stood  near  the  table. 
Resting  his  arm  on  the  table, — (he  sat 
directly  beneath  the  lamp,  in  a  circle  of 
shadow,) — and  shading  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  he  silently  surveyed  the  woman,  over 
whom  the  light  fell  in  full  radiance.  There 
was  dark  hair,  there  were  bright  eyes,  be- 
neath that  vail  of  lace ;  a  young,  a  richly 
moulded  form,  beneath  that  garb  of  sable  ; 
but  in  vain  he  endeavored  to  trace  the  fea- 
tures of  the  unknown. 

"  You  received  a  letter  ?"  said  the  lady, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"As  I  was  passing  up  Broadway,  a  few 
moments  since,  a  letter  was  placed  in  my 
hand,  bidding  my  presence  at  this  house,  on 
an  errand  of  life  and  death," 

She  started  at  the  sound  of  that  sonorous 
and  hollow  voice,  and,  through  her  vail, 
seemed  to  survey  him  earnestly. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come.  I  thank 
you  with  all  my  soul.  Although  not  a  mem- 
ber of  your  church,  I  have  heard  of  you 
for  a  long  time,  and  heard  of  you  as 
one  who,  having  suffered  much  himself,  was 
especially  fitted  to  render  consolation  to  the 
heart-broken  and  despair-stricken.  Now  I 
am  heart-broken  and  despairing," — she 
paused, — "  I  am  dying, — " 
Dying  ?"  he  echoed. 
"  And  have  sent  for  you,  believing  you  to 
be  an  honest  man,  not  to  hear  confession  of 
my  sins,  for  they  are  too  dark  to  be  told  or 
be  forgiven.  But  to  ask  you  a  simple  ques- 
tion, which  I  implore  you  to  answer,  not  as 
a  priest,  but  as  a  man- ; — to  answer,  not  with 
the  set  phrases  of  your  vocation,  but  frankly 
and  fully,  even  as  you  wish  to  have  peace 
yourself  in  the  hour  of  death." 

"And  that  question, — "  the  priest's  head 
bent  low  upon  his  breast,  and  he  surveyed 
her  earnestly  \vith  his  eyes  hidden  beneath 
his  down- drawn  brows. 

"Do  you  believe  in  any  Hereafter?  Do 
15 


you  believe  in  another  world  ?  Docs  the 
death  of  the  body  end  the  story  ?  Or,  after 
the  death  of  the  body,  does  the  soul  rise  and 
live  again  in  a  new  and  diviner  life  ?" 

"  My  sister,"  said  the  priest,  with  much 
emotion,  "I  Jmoiu  that  there  is  a  hereafter, — 
I  l-noiv  that  the  death  of  the  body,  is  not  the 
end  of  all,  but  simply  the  first  step  in  an 
eternal  pilgrimage — " 

"This  you  say  as  a  man,  and  not  as  a 
priest, — this  is  your  true  thought,  as  you  wish 
to  have  peace,  in  the  hour  of  your  death  ?" 

"Even  so,"  said  Father  Luke. 

"  Thank  you,  0,  bless  you  with  all  my 
soul.  One  question  more, — 0,  answer  me 
with  the  same  frankness. — In  the  next  world 
shall  we  meet,  and  know  the  friends  whom 
we  have  loved  in  this  ?" 

"  We  shall  meet,  we  shall  know,  we  shall 
love  them  in  the  next  world,  as  certainly  as 
we  ever  met,  knew  and  loved  them  in  this," 
was  the  answer  of  Father  Luke,  given  with 
all  the  force  and  earnestness  of  undeniable 
sincerity.  "  Do  you  think  we  gather  affec- 
tions to  our  heart,  only  to  bury  them  in  the 
grave  ?" 

The  lady  rose  from  her  chair, — 

"  I  thank  you,  once  more,  and  with  all  my 
soul.  Your  words  come  from  your  heart. 
They  confirm  the  intuitions  of  my  own 
heart.  For  the  consolation  which  these 
words  afford,  accept  the  gratitude  of  a  dying 
woman.  And  now, — "  she  extended  her 
hand,  "  and  now  farewell !" 

The  priest,  who,  through  this  entire  inter- 
view, had  never  ceased  to  regard  her,  with 
his  eyes  almost  hidden  by  his  down-drawn 
brows, — struggling  all  the  while  to  repress 
an  agitation  which  increased  every  moment, 
and  well  nigh  mastered  him, — the  priest 
also  rose  ^\ith  these  words  on  his  lips  : 

"  You  dying,  sister !  you  seem  young,  and 
full  of  life,  and  with  the  prospect  of  long 
years  before  you." 

It  was  either  the  impulse  of  madness,  or 
i  the  force  of  a  calm  conviction,  which  indjjced 
;  her  to  reply  : 

"  In  one  hour  I  will  be  dead." 

The  priest  silently  took  her  offered  hand, 
:  and  at  the  same  instant,  emerged  from  the 
I  circle  of  shadow,  into  the  full  glow  of  the 
j  light.  There  v.-as  something  like  magic  in 
I  the  pressure  of  their  hands. 


£32 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


And  the  woman  lifted  her  vail,  disclosing 
a  beautiful  face,  which  already  touched  with 
the  pallor  of  death,  was  lighted  by  dark 
eyes,  whose  brightness  was  almost  superna- 
tural. 

Lifting  her  gaze  lieaven-ward,  she  said,  as 
though  thinking  aloud, — 

"In  another  world,  Ernest,  I  will  meet, 
I  will  know,  I  will  love  you  !" 

But  ere  the  words  had  passed  her  lips, — 
yes,  as  the  slowly  lifted  vail  disclosed  her 
face, — the  priest  sank  back,  as  though  stricken 
by  a  blow  from  an  iron  hand,  uttering  a 
wild  and  incoherent  cry,  —  sank  back  as 
though  the  grave  had  yielded  up  its  dead, 
and  confronted  him  with  a  form,  linked  with 
holy  and  yet  accursed  memories. 

"  0,  Frank,  is  it  thus  we  meet,"  he  cried, 
and  fell  on  his  knees,  and  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

The  sound  of  his  voice,  at  once  lifted  the 
scales  from  her  eyes, — sl^e  knew  him, — the 
vague  consciousness  of  his  presence,  which 
had  agitated  her  for  the  past  few  moments, 
became  certainty.  She  knew  that  in  Father 
Luke,  who  knelt  before  her,  she  beheld 
Ernest  Walworth,  her  plighted  husband. 
Sad  and  terrible  indeed,  must  have  been  the 
change,  which  had  fallen  upon  his  counte- 
nance, that  she  did  not  know  him,  when  he 
sat  before  her  in  the  shadow  ! 

Trembling  in  every  nerve,  and  yet  strong 
with  the  energy  of  a  soul,  that  had  taken  its 
farewell  of  this  life,  she  gave  utterance  to 
her  feelings,  in  a  single  word, — his  own, — 
pronounced  in  the  soft  low  tones  of  other 
days. 

"  Ernest !" 

"  0,  Frank,  Frank,  is  it  thus  we  meet !"  he 
cried  in  wild  agony,  as  he  raised  his  face. 
"  You, — you, — the  only  woman  that  I  ever 
loved, — you,  wdiose  very  memory  has  torn 
my  heart,  since  that  fatal  hour,  when  I  met 
you  in  the  accursed  haunt  of  death, — " 

"Ernest  jou.  will  sit  by  me  as  I  die,  you 
will  press  your  hand  in  forgiveness  on  my 
foreh^^ad,  my  last  look  shall  encounter 
yours — " 

She  opened  her  dark  robe,  and  disclosed 
the  snow-white  dress  which  she  wore  beneath 
it.  That  dress  was  a  shroud.  Yes,  the 
beautiful  form,  the  bosom  which  had  once 
been  the  home  of  a  pure  and  stainless  love, 


'  and  which  had  beat  with  the  throb  of  sensual 
passion,  were  now  attired  in  a  shroud. 

"Behold  me,  attired  for  the  grave,"  she 
said, —  and  the  tears  started  to  her  eyes, — 
"This  morning,  resolved  to  quit  this  life, 
which  for  me,  has  been  a  life  of  unutterable 
shame  and  despair,  I  prepared  for  my  de- 
parture. Everything  is  ready.  Come,  Er- 
nest, and  behold  the  preparations  for  my 
bridal, — "  she  pointed  to  the  couch;  he  rose 
and  followed  her.  "I  am  in  love  with 
death,  and  will  wed  him  ere  an  hour  is 
gone."  She  drew  aside  the  curtains,  and 
upon  the  white  coverlet,  Ernest  beheld  a 
dark  object, — a  coflSn  covered  with  black- 
cloth,  and  glittering  with  a  silver  plate. 

"Everything  is  ready,  Eraest,  and  I  am 
going.  Nay,  do  not  weep,  do  not  attempt  to 
touch  my  hand.  I  am  but  a  poor  polluted 
thing,  —  a  wreck,  a  miserable,  miserable 
wreck  !  My  touch  would  pollute  you, — I 
am  not  worth  your  tears." 

Ernest  hid  his  face  in  the  hangings  of  the 
couch, — he  Avrithed  in  agony. 

"  You  shall  not  die, — you  must  be  saved!" 
he  wildly  exclaimed. 

She  walked  across  the  floor,  with  an  even 
step ;  in  a  moment  she  was  seated  in  the 
rocking-chair,  with  Ernest  before  her,  his 
face  hidden  in  his  hands.  Her  face  grew 
paler  every  moment ;  her  eyes  brighter  ;  and 
the  shroud  which  enveloped  her  bosom, 
began  to  quiver,  with  the  last  pulsations  of 
her  dying  heart.  As  the  vail  mingled  its 
fleecy  folds  with  her  raven  hair,  she  looked 
very  beautiful,  yes,  beautiful  with  the  touch 
of  death. 

And  as  Ernest,  choked  with  his  agony,  sat 
before  her,  hiding  his  face,  she  talked  in  a 
calm,  even  tone, — 

"0,  life!  life!  you  have  been  a  bitter 
draught  to  me,  and  now  I  am  about  to  leave 
you  !  All  day  I  have  been  thinking  of  my 
shame,  of  my  crimes, — I  have  summoned  up 
every  act  of  my  life, — the  images  of  the  past 
have  walked  before  me  in  a  sad  funeral  pro- 
cession. 0,  Thou,  w^ho  didst  forgive  the 
Magdalene, — Thou  who  hadst  compassion 
on  the  poor  wretch,  whose  cross  arose  beside 
thine  own, — Thou  who  dost  know  all  my 
life,  my  temptations,  and  my  crimes, — for- 
give !  forgive  !  It  is  a  wandering  child,  sick 
of  wandering,  who  now. — 0,  Thou,  all-mer- 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


233 


ciful ! — gathers  up  the  wreck  of  a  miserable 
life,  and  Lays  it,  with  all  its  sins  and  shame,  at 
Thy  feet. 

As  she  uttered  this  simple,  yet  awful 
prayer,  Ernest  did  not  raise  his  face.  The 
agony  which  shook  him  was  too  deep  for 
words. 

Her  voice  grew  faint  and  fainter,  as  she 
went  on,  in  a  vague  and  rambling  way — 

"And  I  was  so  innocent  once,  and  did  not 
know  what  sorrow  was,  and  felt  such  glad- 
ness, at  the  sight  of  the  sky,  of  the  stars,  of 
the  flowers, — at  the  very  breath  of  spring 
upon  my  cheek  !  0,  I  wonder  if  the  old 
home  stands  there  yet, — and  the  nook  in  the 
forest,  don't  you  remember,  Ernest  ?  I  was 
BO  happy,  so  happy  then !  And  now  I  am 
dying  —  dying, — but  you  are  near.  You 
forgive  me,  Ernest,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  Forgive  you  1"  he  echoed,  raising  his 
face,  and  spreading  forth  his  clasped  hands, 
"  God's  blessing  and  His  consolation  be  upon 
you  now  and  forever!  And  His  curse, — " 
a  look  of  hatred,  Avhich  stamped  every  linea- 
ment of  his  face,  revealed  the  intensity  of 
his  soul, — "and  His  curse  be  upon  those, 
who  brought  you  to  this  !" 

As  he  spoke,  the  death  damps  began  to 
glisten  on  her  forehead  ;  a  glassy  look  began 
to  vail  the  intense  brightness  of  her  eyes. 

"  Your  hand,  sit  by  me, — "  she  said  faintly, 
"  I  shall  sleep  soon." 

He  drew  his  chair  to  her  side,  and  softly 
put  his  hand  upon  her  forehead, — it  was 
cold  as  marble. 

"  It  is  good  to  go  thus, — with  Ernest  by 
me, — and  in  token  of  forgiveness  too,  with 
his  hand  upon  my  forehead — " 

Her  words  were  interrupted  by  a  footstep 
and  a  voice. 

"  Frank  !  Frank  !  \vhere  are  you  !  I  have 
triumphed  ! — triumphed  !  The  one  child  is 
out  of  my  way,  and  the  other  is  in  my  power!" 

It  was  Colonel  Tarleton,  who  rushed  to 
the  light,  his  face  lividly  pale,  and  disfigured 
by  wounds,  his  right  arm  carried  in  a  sling. 
He  had  not  seen  his  daughter  since  the  hour 
when  he  left  the  Temple,  before  the  break 
of  day.  And  now,  faint  with  loss  of  blood, 
and  yet  strong  in  the  consciousness  of  his 
triumph,  he  rushed  into  the  death-room  of 
his  child. 

"  I  have  had  a  hard  time,  Frank,  but  the 


game  is  won !  The  estate  is  ours  !  The 
other  son  of  Gulian  Van  Huyden  is  in  my 
power, — " 

The  words  died  on  his  lips.  He  beheld 
the  dark  form  of  the  stranger,  and  the  face 
of  his  dying  child.  The  young  form  clad  in 
a  shroud  ;  the  countenance  pale  with  death  ; 
the  large  eyes,  whose  brightness  was  vailed 
in  a  glassy  film, — he  saw  this  sad  picture  at 
a  glance,  but  could  not  believe  the  evidence 
of  his  senses. 

"  Why,  Frank,  what's  all  this  ?  "  he  cried, 
as  with  his  pale  face,  marked  by  wounds,  he 
stood  before  his  daughter. 

She  slowly  raised  her  eyes,  and  regarded 
him  with  a  sad  smile. 

"  The  poison,  father, — I  drank  it  myself ; 
he  went  forth  from  this  house  safe  from  all 
harm — " 

Her  voice  failed. 

Tarleton  uttered  a  frightful  cry,  and  fell 
like  a  dead  man  on  the  floor,  his  face  against 
the  carpet.  The  reality  of  the  scene  had 
burst  upon  him ;  in  the  hour  of  his  triumph 
he  saw  his  schemes,  —  the  plans  woven 
through  the  long  course  of  twenty-one  years 
and  darkened  by  hideous  crimes, — leveled 
in  a  moment  to  the  dust. 

Frank  slowly  turned  her  head,  and  fixed 
her  glassy  eyes  upon  the  face  of  Ernest, — 
0,  the  intensity  of  that  long  and  yearning 
gaze  ! 

"  I  am  Aveary  and  cold,"  she  gasped,  "  but 
it  is  light  yonder." 

And  that  was  all.  Her  eyes  became 
fixed, — she  laid  her  head  gently  on  her 
shoulder,  and  fell  asleep. 

She  was  dead  ! 

Ernest  knelt  beside  her,  and  with  his  eyes 
flashing  from  their  sunken  sockets,  he  clasped 
his  hands  and  uttered  a  prayer  for  the  dead. 

There  were  footsteps  in  the  pas  age  and 
presently  into  the  death-room  came  Mary 
Berman  and  Nameless,  their  faces  stamped 
with  the  same  look  in  which  hope  and  ter- 
ror mingled.  Nameless  bore  the  last  letter 
of  Frank  in  his  hand  ;  it  had  hurried  him 
and  Mary  from  the  corpse  of  the  artist  to  the 
home  of  Frank,  and  they  arrived  only  in. 
time  to  behold  her  dead. 

"She  died  to  save  my  life  !"  said  Name- 
less solemnly,  as  he  surveyed  that  face  which 
looked  so  beautiful  in  death.    That  there 


234 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NTGHT. 


were  strong  emotions  tugging  at  his  heart, — 
emotions  such  as  are  not  felt  twice  in  a  life- 
time,— need  not  be  told. 

And  Mary,  with  tears  upon  her  pure  and 
beautiful  face,  stole  silently  to  the  side  of  the 
dead  woman,  and  smoothed  her  dark  hair, 
and  put  her  kiss  upon  her  clammy  forehead, 
and  closed  those  eyes  which  had  looked  their 
last  upon  this  world. 

The  prayer  was  said,  and  Ernest,  resting 
his  hands  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair  in  which 
the  dead  woman  sat,  hid  once  more  his  face 
from  the  light,  and  surrendered  himself  to 
the  full  sway  of  his  agony. 

A  voice  broke  the  dead  stillness,  and  a 
livid  face  was  uplifted  from  the  floor. 

"  It's  an  infernal  dream,  Frank.  You 
could  not  have  been  so  foolish !  The  estate 
is  ours, — ours, — " 

He  saw  at  the  same  glance  the  face  of 
Nameless  and  the  face  of  his  dead  child. 

Here  let  us  return  for  a  moment  to  Mary- 
vale,  the  old  mansion  in  the  country,  to 
which,  this  morning  before  break  of  day,  the 
Unknown,  (in  whom  you  doubtless  recognize 
Gaspar  Manuel,  or  the  Legate,)  had  con- 
ducted the  boy,  Gulian,  the  private  secretary 
of  Evelyn  Somers,  Sr. 

The  contest  between  Tarleton  and  the  dog 
Cain,  in  the  presence  of  young  Gulian,  will 
be  remembered  ;  as  well  as  the  fact,  that 
even  as  Tarleton,  suffering  from  his  wounds, 
attempted  to  bear  Gulian  from  the  house,  he 
fell  insensible  at  his  victim's  feet. 

An  hour  afterward,  when  the  light  of  day 
shone  on  the  old  mansion,  the  Legate  re- 
turned and  eagerly  sought  the  chamber  of 
young  Gulian.  The  floor  w^as  stained  with 
blood,  the  dead  body  of  Cain  was  stretched  at 
his  feet,  but  the  boy  had  disappeared.  The 
Legate  was  a  man,  who,  through  the  course 
of  long  years  had  learned  to  restrain  all  ex- 
ternal signs  of  emotion,  but  when  he  became 
conscious  that  young  Gulian  was  gone, — he 
knew  not  whither, — his  agitation  broke  forth 
in  the  wildest  expressions  of  despair. 

"  But  I  will  again  rescue  him  from  his 
persecutor.  Yes,  before  the  day  is  over,  he 
will  be  safe  under  my  protection." 

And  himself  and  his  numerous  agents 
sought  the  city  through  all  day  long ;  and 
Bought  in  vain. 


CHAPTER  IL 

HERMAN  AND  GODIVA. 

Our  history  now  returns  to  Madam  Resi- 
mer,  whom  we  left  in  her  most  secret  cham- 
ber, near  ten  o'clock,  on  the  24th  of  Decem- 
be,  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  bell,  which 
resounded  through  her  mansion. 

It  was  the  bell  of  the  secret  passage. 

"Who  can  it  be?"  again  ejaculated  the 
Madam,  as  she  stood  in  the  center  of  the 
room,  with  the  light  of  the  candle  on  one 
side  of  her  florid  face. 

To  which  Corkins,  who  stood  behind  her, 
his  slender  form  lost  in  her  capacious  sha- 
dow, responded  in  a  quivering  voice,  "  Who 
can  it  be  ?" 

Much  troubled  and  very  angry,  and  not 
knowing  upon  w'hom  to  vent  her  anger,  the 
Madam  turned  upon  her  trembling  satellite, 
and  addressing  him  by  numerous  titles,  not 
one  of  w^hich  but  was  more  vigorous  than 
elegant  or  complimentary,  she  bade  him, — 

"  Run  for  your  life.  Answer  the  bell  of 
the  secret  passage !  Don't  be  foolin'  away 
your  time,  when  the  very  devil's  to  pay  and 
no  pitch  hot.    Cut !" 

Corkins  accordingly  "  cut,"  or,  to  speak  in 
a  less  classical  phrase,  he  glided  from  the 
room. 

How  anxiously  the  Madam  waited  there, 
in  her  most  secret  chamber,  with,  her  finger 
to  her  lip,  and  the  candle-light  on  one  side 
of  her  face  ! 

"  Who  can  it  be  ?  Only  four  persons  in 
the  world  know  of  this  secret  passage.  It 
can't  be  this  devil  from  Philadelphia  ?  0,  I 
shall  do  somebody  a  mischief  !  I  can't  en- 
dure this  any  longer, — " 

Hark !  There  are  footsteps  in  the  corri- 
dor ;  they  approach  the  Madam's  room.  She 
fixes  her  small  black  eyes  upon  the  door, 
with  the  intensity  of  a — cat,  contemplating 
a  rat-hole. 

"  This  w^ay,"  cries  the  voice  of  Corkins, 
and  he  enters  the  room,  followed  by  two  per- 
sons, one  of  whom  is  taller  than  the  other, 
and  both  of  whom  wear  caps  and  cloaks. 

"  Has  he  come  back  ?"  cries  the  taller  of 
the  two,  in  a  voice  that  trembles  with  anxi- 
ety and  fear, — he  lifts  his  cap,  and  discloses 
the  face  of  Herman  Barnhurst. 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


235 


"No, — no, — I  haven't  laid  eyes  upon  him 
since  last  night,"  and  she  clutched  Barnliurst 
by  the  arm, — "  Where  did  you  leave  him  ?" 

"  He  went  home  with  me,"  replied  Barn- 
hurst,  and  stopped  to  gaze  around  that  room, 
dimly  lighted  by  a  single  candle,  as  though 
he  was  afraid  that  Dermoyne  was  concealed 
in  its  shadows. — "  I  left  him  in  the  parlor 
down  stairs.  He  was  determined  to  wait  for 
me  until  morning,  and  then  come  with  me 
to  this  house.  But  this  morning,  when  I 
came  down  stairs,  he  was  not  there." 

"  He  was  not  there  ?"  echoed  the  Madam, 
breathless  with  impatience. 

"He  wasn't  there;  there  was  blood  upon 
the  sofa  and  the  carpet,  and  marks  of  a 
struggle." 

The  Madam  uttered  a  round  oath  and  a 
cry  of  joy. 

"  Good, — capital !  My  boys  have  done 
their  work.  You  see,  Herman,  I  sent  Dirk 
and  Slung  after  him,  and  they've  laid  him 
out.    It's  a  sure  thing." 

Herman,  even  in  his  fright,  could  not  but 
help  shuddering,  as  he  heard  the  cool  manner 
in  which,  she  spoke  of  Dermoyne's  death.  The 
next  instant  the  idea  of  his  own  safety  rose 
uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"  Do  you  think  that  your  fellows  have 
taken  good  care  of  him  ?"  he  asked. 

"Don't  doubt  it, — don't  doubt  it,"  and  she 
rubbed  her  hands  joyfully  together.  "  It's  a 
sure  thing !" 

A  raven-like  voice,  behind  her,  echoed, 
"  Sure  thing  !"   It  was  Corkins,  of  course. 

"  And  she, — how  is  she  — Herman  low- 
ered his  voice,  and  pointed  upward. 

"  She  is  well !"  was  the  emphatic  response 
of  the  Madam, — "But  how  did  you  know 
of  the  secret  bell  ?  Only  four  persons  in  the 
world  know  of  it,  and  you  are  not  one  of 
them." 

Herman  pointed  to  the  persen  who  had 
entered  with  him,  and  who  now  stood  in  the 
darkness  at  his  back, — "  Godiva !"  he  said. 

The  Madam  gave  a  start,  echoing  "  Go- 
diva,"  and  Corkins,  behind  the  Madam,  as 
in  duty  bound,  re-echoed  "  Godiva  !" 

The  person  called  by  this  name, — the  name 
of  the  beautiful  lady,  famed  in  ancient  story, 
for  the  sacrifice  which  she  made  of  her  mo- 
desty in  order  to  achieve  a  noble  purpose, — 
advanced  from  the  shadows  into  the  light, 


saying,  "  This  boy  came  to  me  this  morning, 
in  a  world  of  trouble  ;  he  confided  all  his 
sorrows  to  me.  It  appears  he  is  in  a  devil 
of  a  scrape.  I  came  here  to  get  him  out  of  it." 

And  removing  cap  and  cloak,  Godiva  stood 
disclosed  in  the  candle-light.  Godiva  was  a 
Avoman  of  some  twenty-five  years,  with  a 
rounded  form,  brown  complexion,  large  eyes 
that  were  hazel  in  the  sun,  and  black  by 
night ;  and  Godiva  wore  her  raven  hair  in 
rich  masses  on  either  side  of  her  warm,  trop- 
ical face.  Godiva  was  dressed,  not  in  those 
flowing  garments  which  give  such  bewitch- 
ing mystery  to  the  form  of  a  lovely  woman, 
but,  in  male  costume  from  head  to  foot, — a 
shirt,  with  open  collar,  dark  satin  vest,  blue 
frock-coat,  black  pantaloons,  and  boots  of 
patent  leather.  Although  looking  short  in 
stature  beside  the  tall  Barnhurst,  she  was 
tall  for  a  woman,  and  her  male  costume, 
which  did  full  justice  to  her  throat,  her 
ample  bust,  and  rounded  limbs,  became  her 
exceedingly. 

With  her  cloak  on  her  right  arm,  her  cap 
in  her  right  hand,  she  rested  her  left  hand  oa 
her  hip,  and  looked  in  the  face  of  the  Mad- 
am with  an  air  of  insolent  condescension 
that  was  quite  refreshing. 

"  How  do  you  do,  my  dear  child  ?" — and 
the  Madam  offered  her  hand.  Godiva  waved 
her  back. 

"  Don't  be  impertinent,  woman,"  was  the 
response.  "  The  few  days  that  I  once  passed 
in  your  house,  by  no  means  give  you  the 
right  to  be  familiar.  I  am  here,  simply,  for 
two  reasons, — I  wish,  in  the  first  place,  to 
get  the  boy  (she  pointed  to  Barnhurst,)  out 
of  his  *  scrape  ;'  and,  in  the  second  place,  to 
recover  a  certain  manuscript  which,  it  seems, 
I  left  in  this  house  when  I  was  here." 

The  Madam  was  an  essentially  vulgar,  as 
well  as  wicked  woman,  but  she  could  not 
help  feeling  the  cutting  insolence  which 
marked  the  tone  of  the  queenly  Godiva. 

"  There  is  no  sich  manuscript  here,"  she 
said,  tartly,  and  her  thoughts  reverted  to  the 
Red  Book. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  wait  to  know  what 
kind  of  manuscript  it  was,  before  mak- 
ing vsuch  a  flat  denial  ?"  coolly  responded 
Godiva.  "  But  now  let's  talk  of  this  boy  ! 
What's  the  amount  of  his  entanglements  ? 
How's  the  girl  ?" 


DAY,  SUXSET,  NIGHT. 

-  —  :  . 


236 

"  She  is  well,"  said  the  Madam,  emphati- 
cally. 

"  Well  !"  croaked  Corkins  from  the  back- 
ground. 

"And  this  fellow  from  Philadelphia — was 
he  really  such  a  desperate  creature  ?"  asked 
Godiva. 

"A  devil  incarnate,"  replied  the  Madam. 

"What's  that?"  cried  Herman,  with  a 
start,  as  the  sound  of  a  bell  once  more  rang 
through  the  mansion. 

"It's  the  bell  of  the  door  in  the  alley. 
Kun,  Corkins  !  It's  Dirk  and  Slung.  Bring 
'em  up, — '  put',  I  say  !" 

Corkins  "  put,"  and  the  party  waited  for 
his  return  in  evident  anxiety.  It  was  not 
long  before  there  was  the  tramp  of  heavy 
steps  in  the  passage,  and  two  men,  roughly 
clad — one,  short,  thick-set,  and  bow-legged, 
the  other,  tall  and  bony — stumbled  into  the 
room,  bringing  with  them  the  perfume  of 
very  bad  liquor. 

"  Where's  de  ole  woman  ?"  cried  Dirk  ; 
"  What  in  do  thunder  de  yer  have  candles 
a-burnin'  in  daylight  for — s-a-y?" 

"  Ole  lady,  I'll  finger  dat  pewter — I  will," 
said  Slung-shot.  "  We  laid  yer  man  out — 
we  did.    Dat  cool  hundred,  ef  yer  please." 

And  while  Herman  and  Godiva  glided  into 
the  shadows,  the  two  rufiQans  recounted  the 
incidents  of  the  night,  in  their  peculiar  pa- 
tois; the  Madam  interrupting  them  with 
questions,  at  every  step  of  the  narrative. 

The  story  of  these  savages  of  city  life, 
(and  we  believe  that  only  the  English  and 
American  cities  produce  such  rufiians  in  a 
perfect  state  of  brute-and-devil  complete- 
ness,) reduced  to  the  briefest  compass,  and 
stripped  of  all  its  oaths,  read  thus  : — They 
had  followed  Dermoyne  and  Barnhurst  all 
night  long.  Entering  the  house  of  Barn- 
hurst, (the  door  had  been  left  ajar,)  they  had 
found  Dermoyne  seated  on  the  sofa,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  a  book.  As  one  struck  him  with 
the  slung-shot,  the  other  extinguished  the 
light,  and  a  brief  but  terrible  contest  took 
place  in  the  dark.  Finally,  they  had  borne 
the  insensible  form  of  Dermoyne  from  the 
house,  and  flung  him  into  the  gutter  of  a 
dark  and  deserted  street. 

"An'  dere  he'd  freeze  to  death,  ef  he  gets 
over  de  dirk  and  de  slung-shot — he  would," 
added  the  thick-set  ruffian. 


"And  where  have  you  been  ever  since  ?" 
asked  the  Madam,  whose  little  eyes  sparkled 
with  joy. 

"  Gittin'  drunk,"  tersely  remarked  Dirk. 
"  The  book  —  you  have  it  ?"  she  said 
eagerly. 

To  which  Dirk  replied,  in  his  own  way, 
that  if  he  had,  he  hoped  his  eyes  and  liver 
might  be  made  uncomfortable  for  an  indefi- 
nite length  of  time. 

"  Fact  is,  it  slid  under  de  sofar  in  de  muss, 
an'  I  couldn't  find  it  in  de  dark." 

The  Madam  burst  into  a  transport  of  fury, 
and  in  her  rage  administered  the  back  of  her 
hand  somewhat  freely  to  the  faces  of  Dirk 
and  Slung.  "  Out  of  my  sight — out  of  my 
sight !  Fools  !  Devils  !  That  book  was  all 
that  I  sent  you  after !"  and  she  fairly  drove 
them  from  the  room.  They  were  heard 
shufiiing  in  the  passage,  and  murmuring  and 
cursing  as  they  went  down  stairs. 

"  The  miserable  knaves  !  What  trust  can 
you  put  in  human  natur'  arter  this  !"  and  she 
fretted  and  fumed  along  the  room. 

"The  book  is  safe  in  my  house,"  said 
Barnhurst,  advancing,  his  face  glowing  with 
satisfaction.  "  This  fellow,  it  appears,  is  safe. 
I  pledge  my  word  to  have  that  book  in  this 
room  before  an  hour." 

Godiva,  looking  over  his  shoulder,  mut- 
tered in  atone  inaudible  to  the  others  :  "And 
my  manuscript  is  in  the  book,  and  I  pledge 
my  word  to  have  that  within  an  hour." 

"If  you  do  that,  Herman,  I'll  sell  my 
soul  for  you  !"  cried  the  Madam,  warmly. 

"  Suppose  we  look  at  the — t/ie  j)atie}it," 
whispered  Herman. 

"  Up-stairs  in  the  same  room  ;"  and  Her- 
man and  Godiva  left  her  room  together,  and 
directed  their  steps  toward  the  chamber  of 
Alice. 

"  The  book  is  safe  ;  he'll  keep  his  word — 
don't  you  think  so,  Corkins?"  said  the 
Madam,  as  she  found  herself  once  more  alone 
with  her  familiar  spirit. 

"  Safe — perfectly,"  returned  Corkins,  when 
his  words  were  interrupted  by  the  ring  of  a 
bell.  It  was  the  front  door  bell  this  time. 
Corkins  hurried  from  the  room,  and  in  a  few 
moments  returned,  and  placed  a  card  in  the 
hands  of  the  Madam  : 

"  This  person  wants  to  see  you." 

Drawing  near  the  candle,  the  Madam  read 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


237 


upon  tbo  card  this  name — "  Dr.  Arthur  ] 
CoNROY."    A  name,  you  will  remember,  as-  i 
sociated  with  the  history  of  Marion  Merlin.  | 
It  was  Arthur  Conroy,  who,  in  the  dissecting 
room,  saw  the  corpse  before  him  start  sud- 
denly into  life, 

"Dr.  Conroy!" — it  seemed  a  familiar  name 
to  the  Madam.  "  I  wonder  if  he  wants  a 
subject  ?    Show  him  up,  Corkins." 

Through  the  bowed  window-shutters  and 
the  drawn  curtains,  the  winter  sunlight  stole 
into  the  chamber  of  Alice,  lighting  up  the 
bed,  and  touching  with  a  few  golden  rays  the 
face  of  the  Virgin  Mary  on  the  w'all. 

Herman  and  Godiva  stood  by  the  bed, 
their  backs  toward  the  window,  and  their 
faces  from  the  light.  They  did  not  speak. 
The  room  was  breathlessly  still. 

Alice  was  there,  resting  on  the  bed,  the 
coverlet  drawn  up  to  her  neck,  and  her  cheek 
pressed  against  the  pillow,  thus  turning  her 
face  to  the  light.  One  hand  and  arm  lay 
motionless  on  the  coverlet,  and  her  sunny 
hair  strayed  in  unbound  luxuriance  over  the 
pillow.  Her  eyes  were  closed ;  her  lips  | 
slightly  parted  ;  her  cheek  pale  as  the  pil- 
low on  which  she  slept :  for  she  was  sleep- 
ing. A  bright  ray,  that  found  entrance 
through  an  aperture  in  the  curtains,  was 
playing  over  her  face,  now  on  her  lips,  now 
on  her  throat,  and  among  the  waves  of  her  j 
silken  hair.  The  sight  was  so  beautiful  that 
Godiva,  whose  heart  had  long  since  ceased 
to  feel,  was  awed  into  silence.  As  for  Her- 
man, he  could  not  take  his  eyes  away,  but 
stood  there  with  his  gaze  chained  to  the  face 
of  the  sleeping  girl  ;  for  she  was  sleeping — 
sleeping  that  dear,  quiet  sleep,  which,  in  this 
world,  never  knows  an  awakening  hour.  In 
the  language  of  the  Avoman-fiend,  she  in- 
deed "was  well!''  Dead,  with  the  second 
life  whicli  she  bore,  dead  within  her.  Poor 
Alice  !  She  had  only  opened  her  wings  in 
the  world,  to  fold  them  again  and  die. 

"Herman,"  whispered  Godiva,  "look  at 
that !    Are  you  not  proud  of  your  work  ?" 

"Don't  taunt  me,  Marion,"  he  answered. 
"  Had  I  never  met  you — had  you  never 
made  my  life  but  one  continued  dream  of 
sensuality — I  would  not  stand  here  at  this 
hour,  gazing  upon  this  murdered  girl. 

"  Sweet  boy  !    And  so,  when  I  first  met 


'  you,  you  believed  all  that  you  preached  in 
1  the  pulpit  ?" 

"  If  I  did  not  believe  it,  I  certainly  did  not 
wish  to  doubt  it.    You,  and  the  life  I've  led 
'  since  first  I  knew  you,  have  made  me  dread 
the  very  mention  of  the  existence  of  a  God, 
or  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul." 

"  Pretty  boy  !  How  sadly  I've  used  you ! 
But  don't  call  me  Marion  again; — that  name 
I  left  in  the  grave.  Leave  off  preaching,  and 
let  us  see  what  you  intend  to  do  ?" 

"Godiva,  whichever  way  I  look  is  ruin, 
I  am  rid  of  this  Dermoyne  ;  but  there  are 
those  persons  who,  conscious  of  the  event  of 
that  night  in  November,  1842,  will  expose  me 
to  the  world,  unless  I  become  their  tool,  in 
regard  to  the  heirs  of  Anreke  Jans  and 
Trinity  Church.  I  am  sick  of  this  life  of 
suspense  and  dread  !  Let  us  fly,  Godiva ;  I 
will  change  my  name,  and,  in  some  distant 
place,  begin  life  anew." 

"What,  and  leave  your  wife  ?" 
"  Take  care,  Godiva,  take  care !  Don't 
press  me  too  hard  !    You  know  who  it  was 
that  planned  the  dishonor  of  that  wife,  when 
I  she  was  a  maiden,  and  betrothed  to  me. 
Take  care !" 

"  You  needn't  look  so  black  at  me  with 
those  devilish  eyes,"  said  Godiva,  as  her  face 
lost  that  bitter  sneer,  which,  for  the  last  few 
moments,  had  made  her  resemble  a  beautiful 
j  fiend.  "  You  mustn't  be  angry  at  my  jests. 
Well — let  us  travel !  I  have  money  enough 
for  both,  and  we  can  enjoy  ourselves  with  mo- 
ney anywhere.  But  the  Van  Huyden  estate?" 

"I  cannot  call  my  share  my  own,  even  if 
a  share  should  happen  to  fall  to  me.  These 
people  who  knew  of  tJie  event  in  1842,  and 
who  are  now  playing  conspirator  between 
Trinity  Church  and  the  heirs  of  Anreke 
Jans,  will  demand  my  share  as  the  price  of 
their  silence.  I  cannot  live  in  this  state  of 
dread.  Listen  Godiva  !  A  vessel  sails  this 
afternoon  for  one  of  the  West  India  Islands. 
What  think  you  of  a  life  in  the  tropics,  far 
away  from  this  devilish  p-adical  world  ? 
Why,  we  can  make  an  Eden  to  ourselves, 
and  forget  that  we  ever  lived  before?  I  have 
engaged  passage  for  two  on  board  this  vessel. 
It  makes  my  heart  bound  !  Groves  of  palm — 
a  cloudless  sky — good  wine — days  all  dream, 
and  nights  ! — ahj  Godiva  !  Flight,  Godiva, 
flight !" 


238 


DAT,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


"Flight  be  it,  and  to-night!"  cried  Go- 
diva,  winding  her  arm  about  Herman's  neck. 

They  were  disturbed  by  a  sound,  low  and 
scarcely  audible — it  resembled  the  sound  of 
a  footstep.  Herman  turned  his  head,  and 
saw,  between  him  and  the  doorway,  the  hag- 
gard face  of — Arthur  Dermoyne,  whose  cheek 
was  marked  with  a  hideous  gash,  but  whose 
eyes  shone  with  a  clear  unfaltering  light. 

Herman  read  his  death  in  those  eyes. 

Let  us  turn  from  this  scene,  and  enter  once 
more  the  secret  chamber  of  the  Madam 

"  Why,  Doctor,  I  am  glad  to  see 
she  cried,  as  Doctor  Arthur  Conroy  entered 
her  room  ;  "  I  haven't  clapped  eyes  upon  you 
for  a  dog's  age.  Why,  bless  me,  how  changed 


you  !" 


you  are !" 

As  Conroy  flung  his  cloak  upon  a  chair, 
and  advancing  to  the  light,  seated  himself 
opposite  the  Madam,  it  was  evident  that  he 
was  indeed  changed.  His  eyes  were  dull 
and  heavy,  his  cheeks  bloated  ;  the  marks 
of  days  and  nights  spent  in  sensual  excess, 
were  upon  every  lineament  of  his  once  noble 
face.  A  sad,  a  terrible  change  !  Can  this 
man  who  sits  before  us,  with  his  coat  but- 
toned to  the  chin,  and  his  heavy  e3^es  rolling 
vacantly  in  his  bloated  countenance,  be  the 
same  Arthur  Conro}'-  whom  we  first  beheld 
in  the  lonely  hour  of  his  student  vigil,  his 
eyes  dilating  with  a  noble  ambition,  his  fore- 
head stamped  with  thought,  with  genius  ? 

"  I  am  changed,"  he  said  sullenly  and  with 
a  thick  utterance ;  "  let  me  have  some 
brandy." 

The  Madam,  without  a  word,  produced  a 
bottle  and  a  glass.  Conroy  filled  the  glass 
half-full,  and  drank  it,  undiluted  with  water, 
and  without  removing  the  glass  from  his 
lips. 

And  then  his  faded  eyes  began  to  flash 
and  his  cheek  to  glow. 

It  was  the  most  melancholy  kind  of  in- 
temperance— that  which  drinks  alone,  and 
drinks  in  silence,  and,  instead  of  rousing  the 
social  feelings,  or  the  grotesque  fancies  of 
drunken  mirth,  calls  up  the  images  of  the 
past,  and  bids  them  feed  upon  the  soul. 

*'  Good  brandy  that !  It  warms  the  blood!" 

"Why,  Conroy,  I  have  not  seen  you  since 
you  brought  Godiva  here,  and  that  is  a  year 
and  I  don't  know  how  many  months  ago." 


"  May  God," — he  ended  the  sentence  with 
an  awful  imprecation  upon  the  very  name 
of  Godiva.  And  his  face  grew  wild  with 
hatred. 

"  Why  I  thought  she  was  a  favorite  of 
yours,  or  you  of  hers,"  said  the  Madam. 

"  By  !  I  wish  I  had  buried  my  knife 

in  her  heart,  as  she  lay  on  the  dissecting 
table  before  me  !"  he  cried,  his  voice  hoarse 
with  emotion.  Look  at  me  !  When  first  I 
met  that  woman  I  was  studious,  ambitious ; 
the  thought  of  my  mother  and  two  sisters, 
who  depended  upon  my  efiforts,  stirred  me 
into  superhuman  exertion.  Well ! — It  is  not 
quite  a  century  since  I  met  that  Avoman,  and 
look  at  me  now — a  gambler — a  drunkard  ; 
yes,"  he  struck  the  table  with  his  fist — "Ar- 
thur Conroy  is  come  to  that !  My  mother 
dead,  of  a  broken  heart,  and  my  sisters,  well ! 
— my  sisters — " 

As  he  tried  to  choke  down  his  emotion, 
his  features  worked  as  with  a  spasm. 

"  Well !  never  mind  ! — and  the  accursed 
woman,  whom  I  brought  to  your  house,  in 
order  to  kill  the  fruits  of  her  p»assion, — she  is 
the  cause  of  all, — " 

The  light  which  left  the  greater  part  of 
the  room  in  shadow,  fell  strongly  over  the 
florid  face  of  the  Madam,  manifesting  vague 
astonishment ;  and  the  flushed  visage  of 
Conroy,  working  with  violent  emotions. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  as  though  thinking  aloud, 
while  his  eyes  shone  with  the  brilliancy  of  a 
lighted  coal, — "  she  was  to  make  my  fortune  ; 
she  was  to  aid  me,  as  I  ascended  that  diffi- 
cult path,  which  ambition  treads  in  pursuit 
of  fame.  How  smooth  her  words !  I 
called  her  back  from  the  dead, — she  recovered 
from  her  relative  a  large  portion  of  her  prop- 
erty, sacrificing  the  rest,  on  condition  that  he 
concealed  the  fact  of  her  existence  from  the 
world, — and  I  loved  her,  became  the  habi- 
tant of  her  mansion,  the  companion  of  her 
voluptuous  hours.  The  she-devil !  look  to 
Avhat  she  has  brought  me  !'■ 

"  I  wonder  if  he  wants  to  bon-ow  money  ?" 
said  the  Madam,  in  a  sort  of  stage-whisper. 

"  No  he  does  not,"  returned  Conroy,  with 
a  scowl, — "  He  wants  to  do  you  a  service, 
good  lady.  This  morning  about  daybreak, 
as  I  was  returning  from  the  Club-Room,  I 
came  across  a  poor  devil  in  the  streets,  who 
had  been  shockingly  abused  by  ruffians, — 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


239 


"Ah  !"  and  the  Madam  sank  back  in  her 
diair. 

"  I  could  not  let  him  die  there,  so  I  drag- 
ged him  to  the  house  of  a  clergyman,  hard 
by,  and  laid  him  on  the  sofa.  Then,  assisted 
by  the  wife  of  the  clergymen,  a  good  sort  of 
woman, — I  dressed  the  wounds  of  the  poor 
devil,  and  brought  him  to." 

"  The  name  of  the  clergyman  ?"  asked  the 
Madam,  biting  her  lips. 

"Barnet,  or  Barnhurst,  or  some  such  name." 

"Ah !"  and  the  Madam  changed  color, 
"  and  you  left  this  man  there  ?" 

"  He  must  have  had  a  constitution  of  iron, 
to  stand  all  those  knocks  !  Do  you  know  in 
a  little  while  he  was  on  his  feet,  explaining 
to  the  clergyman's  lady,  that  he  had  come 
home  with  her  husband,  the  night  before, 
and  had  been  dragged  by  unknown  ruffians, 
from  that  very  house, — " 

"  The  dev-i-1 !"  and  Madam  clutched  the 
arms  of  her  chair,  as  she  tried  to  restrain  the 
rage,  which  filled  every  atom  of  her  bulky 
frame. 

"And  now,  he's  down  stairs  at  the  door — " 
"Down  stairs  at  the  door!"  she  bounded 
from  her  chair. 

"  He  has  a  book  under  his  arm,  bound  in 
red  morocco,"  continued  Dr.  Conro}^, — "  and 
he  desires  to  see  you  on  particular  business," 
and  Conroy  filled  another  glass,  half  full  of 
bi-andy. 

Once  more  to  the  death-room  of  Alice. 

Dermoyne,  who  was  as  white  as  a  sheet, 
stood  but  one  step  from  the  threshold,  Godi- 
va  was  by  the  bed,  Herman  near  the  head  of 
the  bed :  thus  Godiva  was  between  the 
avenger  and  his  victim. 

Herman  read  his  death  in  the  eyes  of 
Dermoyne,  and  looked  to  the  window,  as 
though  he  thought  of  raising  the  sashing, 
and  dashing  himself  to  pieces  upon  the 
pavement. 

Godiva  also  caught  the  eye  of  Dermoyne, — 
she  saw,  that  weak  as  he  was  from  his 
wounds,  and  the  loss  of  blood,  that  he  was 
nerved  by  his  emotions,  by  his  purpose,  with 
superhuman  strength, — she  saw  the  pistol  in  | 
his  hand.    And  all  the  craft  of  her  dark  and  I 
depraved  nature,  came  in  a  moment  to  her ; 
aid.    She  resolved  to  save  Herman, — that  is, ' 
if  her  craft  could  save  him.  i 


"  Hush  !  hush  !"  she  whispered,  "  do  not 
awake  the  sleeping  girl !  She  has  had  a 
hard  night,  but  now  all  is  well.  Hush ! 
tread  lightly, — lightly  !— " 

"  Then  she  lives  !"  cried  Dermoyne,  and 
his  savage  eyes  lit  up  with  joy. 

"Lives,  and  is  doing  well,  don't  you  see 
how  sweet  she  sleeps  ?"  said  Godiva  advan- 
cing to  him,  on  tip-toe,  "  Generous  man  ! 
How  can  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness  to 
my  cousin,  poor,  dear  Alice  ?" 

"  Your  cousin  ?"  without  another  word, 
she  flung  herself  upon  Dermoyne's  breast, 
wound  her  arms  tightly  about  his  neck,  and 
hung  there  like  a  tigress  upon  the  neck  of  her 
victim. 

"Now's  your  time,  Herman  !"  she  cried, — 
and  Dermoyne  struggled  madly  in  her  em- 
brace, but  her  arms  w^ound  closer  about  his 
neck,  and  he  struggled  in  vain.  His  pistol 
fell  to  the  floor. 

Herman  rushed  by  him,  and  the  next  in- 
stant, Dermoyne  had  unwound  the  arms  of 
Godiva,  and  flung  her  violently  to  the  floor. 
He  turned  to  the  door, — it  was  closed  and 
locked, — Herman  had  escaped. 

"  Villain,  you  shall  pay  for  this  with  your 
life  !"  he  cried,  as  with  flaming  eyes,  he  ad- 
vanced upon  the  prostrate  Godiva. 

"Dont  be  rash,  my  dear,"  she  said,  as 
seated  on  the  floor,  she  was  coolly  engaged 
in  arranging  her  disheveled  hair,  "  You 
can't  strike  me.    I'm  a  woman." 

"A  woman  ?"  he  echoed  incredulously. 

"  Yes, — and  a  very  good  looking  one, — 
don't  you  think  so  ?"  and  she  looked  at  hira 
in  insolent  composure,  while  her  vest, — 
torn  open  in  the  struggle, — displayed  a 
glimpse  of  her  neck  and  bosom. 

Who,  in  this  calm  shameless  thing, — 
proud  at  once  of  her  beauty,  and  her  shame, 
would  recognize  the  innocent  Marion  Merlin 
of  other  years  ?  With  an  ejaculation  of  con- 
tempt and  anger,  Dermoyne  turned  away 
from  her,  and  approached  the  bed  of  Alice. 

Alice  was  indeed  sleeping  there,  her  cheek 
upon  the  pillow,  her  lips  apart,  and  Avith  a 
ray  of  sunshine  upon  her  closed  eyelids,  and 
sunny  hair. 

Dermoyne  felt  his  heart  die  within  him  at 
the  sight.  There  are  emotions  upon  which 
it  is  best  to  drop  the  vail,  for  words  are  too 
weak  to  picture  their  awful  intensity. 


240 


DAY,  SUXSET,  NIGHT. 


He  called  her  name,  "Alice !"  and  spread- 
ing forth  his  arms,  he  fell  insensible  upon 
the  bed,  his  lips  pressing  the  forehead  of  the 
dead  girl. 

Godiva  rose,  closed  her  vest,  and  calmly 
surveyed  the  scene,  with  her  eyes  shadowed 
by  her  uplifted  hand  : — 

"  I  believe  upon  my  soul,  he  did  love 
her  !"  was  her  comment,  and  a  tear  shone  in 
her  eye. 

The  key  turned  in  the  lock,  and  presently 
a  man  with  flushed  face,  and  unsteady  step, 
appeared  upon  the  threshold.  It  was  Arthur 
Conroy. 

"  Halloo  !  what's  up  ?"  he  cried,  with  a 
thick  utterance. — "  That  you  Divy  ?"  and 
staggering  over  the  floor,  he  attempted  to  jjut 
his  arm  about  her  neck. 

"  Beast !"  she  cried,  and  struck  him  in 
the  face.  And  ere  he  had  recovered  from 
the  surprise  of  the  blow,  she  glided  from  the 
room. 

Seating  himself  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  his 
eyes  rolling  in  the  vacancy  of  intoxication^ 
he  began  to  mutter  words  like  these, — 

"  I'd  a-better  have  cut  you  up,  when  I  had 
you  on  the  dissectin'  table — I  had.  '  Beast,' 
You've  served  the  devil  for  very  small 
wages,  Arthur  Conroy !  Ha,  ha, — its  a 
queer  world." 

Shall  we  ever  see  Herman  and  Godiva, 
Conroy  and  Dermoyne  again  ? 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  DREAM-ELIXIR. 

The  Twenty-Fourth  of  December  was  a 
happy  day  with  Randolph  Royalton,  One 
happy  day,  after  a  long  month  devoted  to 
agony  and  despair !  Early  morning  light, 
found  him  in  an  upper  chamber  of  the  man- 
sion, near  the  window,  his  form  half  concealed 
among  the  curtains,  but  his  pale  countenance, 
fully  disclosed.  There  was  thought  upon  his 
broad  white  forehead,  relieved  by  the  jet-black 
hair,  an  emotion  of  unspeakable  tenderness, — 
passion, — in  his  large,  clear  blue-eyes,  and  all 
the  while  upon  his  lips,  an  expression  in 
which  hatred  mingled  with  contempt.  For 
three  images  rose  before  him, — his  future, 
and  that  was  hard  to  read,  and  buried  him 
m  thought, — Eleanor,  young  and  beautiful, 
and  willing  io  become  his  own,  and  that 


I  filled  his  eyes  with  the  light  of  passion, — 
his  Brother,  whom  he  had  left  helpless  and 
insensible  in  a  distant  chamber,  and  who  had 
met  all  his  ofiTers  of  fraternal  love  with  with- 
ering scorn,  and  that  thought  curled  his  lip 
with  mingled  hatred  and  contempt. 

In  his  hand  he  held  a  letter,  which  had 
just  been  delivered  by  Mr.  Hicks,  and  before 
him  were  two  huge  trunks,  one  bearing  the 
name  of  "Randolph  Royalton,  Heidleberg," 
and  the  other  the  name  of  "  Esther  Royalton, 
Hill-Royal,  S.  C."  These  trunks  which 
had  just  arrived  in  a  mysterious  manner,  had 
been  placed  in  his  room  by  the  hand  of  a 
servant. 

On  his  way  south,  about  a  month  before, 
Randolph  had  left  his  trunk  in  "Washington, 
and  huiTied  home,  eager  to  see  his  father. 
When  Esther  was  brought  to  Washington, 
by  her  brother  and  her  purchaser,  her  trunk 
was  brought  with  her  from  Royalton.  And 
when  Randolph  and  Esther  escaped  from 
Washington,  they  took  their  trunks  with 
them  as  far  as  Philadelphia,  where  they  left 
them  in  their  eagerness  to  escape  from  their 
pursuers. 

And  now  these  trunks,  —  containing  all 
that  they  were  worth  in  the  world, — had 
by  some  unknown  person,  been  brought  to 
the  house  in  Broadway,  and  delivered  into 
the  servant's  hands,  accompanied  by  the  note 
which  Randolph  held. 

"Brother  !"  ejaculated  Randolph,  thinking 
of  Harry  Royalton,  whom  he  had  left  weak 
and  helpless  in  a  distant  chamber, — a  cham- 
ber which  Randolph  had  given  up  to  him — 
"  Brother  !  I  am  afraid  our  accounts  draw  to 
a  close.  I'm  afraid  that  your  nature  cannot 
be  changed.  Shall  I  have  to  fight  you  with 
your  owa  weapons?  Last  night  I  saved 
your  life, — I  brought  you  to  my  own  home ; 
I  laid  you  on  my  own  bed  ;  I  watched  over 
you,  and  when  you  woke,  held  out  to  you  a 
brother's  hand.  That  hand  you  struck 
down  in^scorn  !  So  much  the  worse  for  you, 
dear  brother.  Your  condition  will  not  allow 
you  to  leave  this  house  for  a  day  or  two, — 
at  least  not  until  to-morrow  is  over.  And 
to-morrow  past,  brother,  you  will  forfeit  all 
interest  in  the  Van  Huyden  Estate. 

Randolph  was  a  generous  and  a  noble  man, 
but  there  were  desperate  elements  within, 
which  the  events  of  the  last  month  had 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


211 


begun  to  develop.  He  now  felt  that  his 
fate  WDiild  be  decided  and  forever,  by  the 
course  of  the  next  twenty -four  hours.  And 
every  power  of  his  soul,  all  the  strength,  the 
good, — shall  we  say  evil  ? — began  to  rise 
within  him  to  meet  the  crisis.  There  was 
energy  in  his  look,  danger  in  his  eye. 

"And  Eleanor, — "  he  breathed  that  name 
and  paused,  and  for  a  moment  he  was  en- 
veloped in  the  atmosphere  of  an  intense  but 
sinless  passion.  "Eleanor  loves  me  !  She 
will  be  mine  !" 

But  how  should  his  marriage  with  Elea- 
nor be  accomplished,  without  the  fatal  dis- 
closure, that  instead  of  being  the  legitimate 
child  of  J ohn  Augustine  Royalton,  he  was 
simply — the  White  Slave  of  his  own  brother  ? 

The  thought  was  madness,  but  Randolph 
met  it,  and  rousing  every  power  of  his  soul, 
sought  to  pierce  the  clouds  which  hung 
upon  his  future. 

He  opened  the  letter,  which  Mr.  Hicks 
had  delivered  to  him,  and  recognized 
the  hand  of  his  unknown  protector, —  his 
friend  of  the  Half-Way  House.  It  was 
dated  "Dec.  24:th,"  18M,  and  these  were  its 
contents  : — 

"  To  Randolph  Royalton  : — 

"When  first  I  met  you  and  your  sister  at 
the  house  near  Princeton,  and  heard  the 
story  of  your  wrongs,  in  you  I  recognized 
the  children  of  an  old  and  dear  friend,  John 
Augustine  Royalton.  I  determined  to  pro- 
tect you.  You  know  how  my  plans  were 
laid.  Your  brother,  also  your  persecutor, 
was  delivered  to  punishment.  Yourself  and 
sister  were  brought  to  New  York,  and  placed 
in  the  mansion  which  you  now  occupy. 
Last  night,  wishing  to  know  whether  there 
yet  remained  in  your  brother  one  throb  of  a 
better  nature — conscious  that  if  his  feelings 
to  you  were  unchanged,  you  would  at  no 
moment  be  safe  from  his  vengeance, — I  ar- 
ranged your  meeting  with  him  and  his  instru- 
ment, in  the  den  below  Five  Points.  From 
old  Royal  (whom  I  first  met  in  Philadel- 
phia, and  who  told  me  of  your  story  before 
I  saw  you  at  the  half-way  house,)  I  have 
learned  all  that  occurred  last  night, — the  at- 
tack made  on  you  by  your  brother, — your 
magnanimous  conduct, — the  awful,  although 
richly  deserved  death  of  Bloodhound,  his 


atrocious  tool.  And  although  I  know  not 
what  became  of  your  brother  after  you  bore 
him  from  the  den,  I  doubt  not  but  that  you 
have  placed  him  where  he  will  be  watched 
ovrr  vith  affectionate  care. 

"Yesterday  I  encountered  Mr.  Bernard 
Lynn,  who  seemed  to  take  a  great  interest  in 
you.  I  directed  him  to  your  house, — treat 
him  as  your  guest  in  your  own  house, — for  I 
especially  desire  you  to  regard  the  house  and 
all  it  contains  as  yours,  until  the  25th  of 
December  has  passed.  Until  then  be  perfectly 
at  your  ease.  Await  the  developments  of 
the  25th  of  December.  In  the  meantime, 
if  you  want  money,  you  will  find  it  in  the 
drawer  of  the  de^k  (of  which  I  inclose  the 
key,)  which  you  will  find  in  your  bed-room. 
Your  trunks,  whiih  you  lost  in  Philadelphia, 
I  have  recovered  and  send  to  you.  Make  no 
effort  to  see  me,  until  I  call  upon  you. 
"  Your  friend, 

"EZEKIEL  BOGART." 

In  the  letter  there  was  much  food  for 
thought. 

"So  far  all  well,"  thought  Randolph, — 
"  but  to-morrow  once  passed,  what  then  ?" 
He  unlocked  his  trunk,  and  after  a  careful 
examination,  found  that  its  contents  remained 
the  same  as  when  he  had  left  it  in  Washing- 
ton. It  was  very  large,  and  divided  into 
various  compartments,  and  contained  his 
wardrobe,  his  choicest  books,  and  most  treas- 
ured letters,  together  with  numerous  memo- 
rials of  his  student  life  in  Heidelberg.  Open- 
ing a  small  and  secret  drawer,  he  drew  forth 
a  package  of  letters,  held  together  by  a  faded 
ribbon. 

"  Ah  !  letters  from  my  father  ! "  and  ho 
untied  the  package, — "  What  is  this  ?  I 
never  saw  it  before  !" 

It  was  a  letter  directed  to  him  in  his  fath- 
er's hand,  and  sealed  with  his  father's  seal. 
To  his  complete  astonishment  the  seal  was 
unbroken. 

"  How  came  this  letter  here  ?  My  father's 
seal  and  unbroken, — this  is  indeed  strange  !" 

He  regarded  the  letter  carefully,  weighed 
it  in  his  hand,  but  paused,  in  hesitation,  ere 
he  broke  the  seal.  For  the  first  time,  written 
around  the  seal,  in  his  father's  hand,  he  be- 
held these  words,  "  Not  to  he  ojpened  until  my 
death." 


242 


DAY,  SUNSET,  KIGHT. 


Tears  started  into  Randolph's  eyes,  and 
for  a  moment,  as  he  knelt  there,  he  rested 
his  forehead  on  his  hand. 

Then,  with  an  eager  hand,  he  broke  the 
seal.  The  contents  of  the  letter  were  bared 
to  the  light. 

"  Heidelberg,  September  23,  1840. 
"Dearest  Son  : — 

"  You  have  just  left  me,  and  with  the 
memory  of  our  late  conversation  fresh  in  my 
mind,  I  now  write  this  letter,  which  you 
will  not  read  until  I  am  dead.  Randolph,  I 
repeat  the  truth  of  that  which  I  have  just 
disclosed  to  you, — j-our  mother  was  not  my 
mistress,  but  my  lawful  wife.  Yourself  and 
Esther  are  legitimate.  By  my  will  I  make 
you,  with  Harry,  joint  inheritors  of  my  es- 
tate, and  of  my  share  in  the  Van  Huj'den 
estate. 

*'  Your  mother,  Herodia,  was  not  the  child 
of  Colonel  Rawdon,  but  the  dearly  beloved 
daughter  of    ,  who  never  ac- 
knowledged her  to  the  world.  He  commu- 
nicated, however,  the  secret  of  her  paternity 
to  Rawdon,  and  left  her  in  his  charge,  in- 
trusting him  with  a  sealed  packet,  which  he 
directed  should  be  delivered  to  Herodia's 
son,  in  case  a  son  was  ever  born  to  her.  A 
packet  which  contained  a  commission,  upon 
whose  fulfillment  by  that  son,  the  happiness, 
the  destiny  of  all  the  races  on  the  American 
continent,  might  depend.  Worshiping  the 
memor}^  of  this  great  man,  Rawdon  treated 
Herodia  (known  as  a  slave)  as  his  own  child 
and  would  not  transfer  her  to  me,  until  I  had 
made  her  my  wife  in  a  secret  marriage. 

"  A  sealed  copy  of  my  will  I  gave  you  a 
few  moments  since  ;  and  this  letter  contains 

an  original  letter  of  ,  written 

to  Colonel  Rawdon,  and  recognizing  Herodia 
as  his  child. 

"  When  I  am  dead,  you  will  find  the 
packet  in  a  secret  closet  behind  the  fourth 
shelf  of  my  library,  at  Hill  Royal.  There 
you  will  also  find  a  large  amount  of  gold, 
which  may  be  useful  to  you  in  some  unfore- 
seen hour  of  adversity,  and  which  I  hereby 
give  to  you  and  Esther. 

"  This  letter  I  inclose  in  the  package  of 
letters  which  you  left  for  my  perusal 
'*  Your  father, 
"  John  Augustine  Royalton, 

"  of  Hill  BoyaV 


Randolph  read  this  letter  with  signs  cf 
emotion  not  to  be  mistaken.  Rising  froir* 
his  knees,  he  walked  slowly  up  and  down 
the  room,  his  eyes  shaded  by  his  uplifted 
hand.  As  he  drew  near  the  window,  his 
pale  face  was  flushed,  his  eyes  radiant  with 
new  light. 

"  So  !  I  am  then  the  elder  brother,  the 
real  lord  of  Hill  Royal !  My  mother  was  a 
slave,  but  she  was  the  lawful  wife  of  my 
father."  His  brow  clouded  and  his  lips 
curved.  "  It  seems  to  me  this  younger  bro- 
ther has  given  us  trouble  enough, — let  him 
have  a  care  how  his  shadow  crosses  my  way 
for  the  future." 

He  stood  erect  in  every  inch  of  his  stature, 
his  eyes  dilating,  and  his  hand  extended,  as 
though,  —  even  like  a  glorious  landscajoe, 
rich  in  vine-clad  mountains  and  grassy  mead- 
ows, smiling  in  the  sun, — he  beheld  his  fu- 
ture stretch  clear  and  bold  before  him. 

"  Harry,  I  have  given  you  my  hand  for 
the  last  time,"  he  said,  in  a  significant  voice. 

A  piece  of  paper,  carefully  folded  and 
worn  by  time,  slipped  from  the  letter  which 
he  held.  Randolph  seized  it  eagerly,  and 
opening  it,  beheld  a  few  lines  traced  in  a 
handwriting  which  had  long  become  histo- 
rical. It  was  dated  many  years  back,  and 
was  addressed  to  Colonel  Rawdon. 

"  My  Esteemed  Friend  : — 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  the  girl,  Herodia, 
whom,  many  years  ago,  I  placed  in  your 
care,  (acquainting  you  with  the  circumstances 
of  her  birth  and  paternity,)  progresses  to- 
ward womanhood,  rich  in  education,  accom- 
plishments and  personal  loveliness.  While 
nominally  your  slave,  you  have  treated  her 
as  a  daughter, — accept  her  father's  heartfelt 
gratitude.  In  consequence  of  her  descent, 
on  her  mother's  side,  she  cannot  (with  safety  | 
to  herself)  be  formally  manumitted,  nor  can 
she  be  publicly  recognized  as  the  equal  of 
your  own  daughter,  or  the  associate  of  ladies 
of  the  white  race.  But  it  is  my  hist  charge 
to  you,  that  she  be  honorably  (even  although 
secretly)  married ;  and  that  the  inclosed 
sealed  packet  which  I  send  to  you,  be  given 
to  her  eldest  son,  in  case  a  son  is  born  to  her. 
That  packet  contains  matters  which,  carried 
into  action  by  such  a  son,  would  do  much, 
yes,  everything,  to  establish  the  happiness 


DAT,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


243 


of  all  the  races  on  this  continent.  Kiss  for 
me,  that  dear  daughter  of  mine,  whom,  in 
this  life,  I  shall  never  behold. 

"  Yours,  with  respect  and  gratitude, 

«  >> 

A  very  touching, —  an  altogether  signifi- 
cant letter. 

Kandolph  pressed  it  to  his  lips  in  silence. 
Then  inclosing  it  within  his  father's  letter, 
he  placed  them  both  in  a  secret  compartment 
of  his  trunk. 

He  seated  himself,  and  folding  his  arms, 
gave  himself  up  to  the  dominion  of  a  crowd 
of  thoughts,  which  flooded  in  upon  his  soul, 
like  mingled  sunshine  and  lightning  through 
the  window  of  a  darkened  room. 

****** 

Bending  over  his  trunk,  he  was  examin- 
ing, with  an  absent  gaze,  certain  memorials 
of  his  old  student  brothers  of  Heidelberg. 
A  small  casket  contained  them  all. 

"  This  ring  was  given  to  me  by  poor  Rich- 
mond, the  English  student.  He  was  killed 
in  a  duel.  And  here  is  the  watch  of  Yan 
Brondt, — poor  fellow  !  he  died  of  consump- 
tion, even  as  his  studies  were  completed,  and 
a  youth  of  poverty  and  hardship  seemed  about 
to  be  succeeded  by  a  manhood  of  wealth  and 
fame.  And  this," — he  took  up  a  small  vial, 
whose  glass  was  incased  in  silver, —  '*  this, 
Van  Eichmer,  the  enthusiastic  chemist,  gave 
me.  I  wonder  whether  his  dreams  of  fame, 
from  the  discovery  embodied  in  this  vial, 
will  ever  be  realized  ?  A  rare  liquid, — its 
powers  rivaling  the  wonders  of  enchantment. 
He  gave  it  to  me  under  a  solemn  pledge  not 
to  subject  it  to  chemical  analysis,  until  he 
has  time  to  mature  his  discovery,  and  make 
it  known  as  the  result  of  his  own  genius. 
He  called  it  (somewhat  after  the  fanciful 
fashion  of  the  old  alchemists)  the  *  Dream- 
Elixir.'  I  wonder  if  it  has  lost  its  virtues  ?" 

Eemoving  the  buckskin  covering  which 
concealed  the  stopple,  he  then  carefully  drew 
the  stopple,  and  applied  the  vial  for  a  mo- 
ment to  his  nostrils.  The  effect  was  as  rapid 
as  lightning.  His  face  changed  ;  his  eyes 
grew  wild  and  dreamy.  His  whole  being 
was  pervaded  by  an  inexpressible  rapture, — 
a  rapture  of  calmness,  (if  we  may  thus 
speak)  a  rapture  of  unutterable  repose.  And 
like  cloud-forms  revealed  by  lightning,  the 


most  gorgeous  images  swept  before  him.  He 
seemed  to  have  been  suddenly  caught  up 
into  the  paradise  of  Mahomet,  among  foun- 
tains, showering  upon  beds  of  roses,  and  with 
the  white-bosomed  houris  gliding  to  and 
fro. 

In  a  word,  the  effect  of  the  vial,  applied 
but  for  an  instant  to  his  nostrils,  threw  into 
the  shade  all  the  wonders  of  opium,  and 
rivaled  in  enchantment  the  maddening 
draught  of  oriental  story,  —  the  Hashish, — 
which  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  gave  to 
his  devotee  Assassins,*  intoxicating  them 
with  the  odors  of  paradise,  even  as  their 
hands  were  red  with  their  victims'  blood. 

Like  one  awaking  from  a  trance,  Randolph 
slowly  recovered  from  the  effect  of  the  Dream- 
Elixir,  and  once  more  saw  the  winter  light 
shining  through  his  window.  The  vial  was 
in  his  hand, — he  had  taken  the  precaution  to 
replace  the  stopple,  the  moment  after  he  had 
applied  it  to  his  nostrils. 

"  It  has  lost  none  of  its  virtues.  Held  to 
the  nostrils,  or  a  few  drops  on  a  kerchief, 
applied  to  the  mouth,  its  first  effect  is  rapture; 
the  second,  rapture  prolonged  to  delirium;  its 
third,  rapture  that  ends  in  death." 

Randolph  replaced  the  buckskin  covering 
around  the  stopple  of  the  vial,  and  then 
placed  the  vial  in  his  vest  pocket. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  the 
quiet  Mr.  Hicks  entered  the  room,  clad  in  his 
gray  livery,  turned  up  wdth  black.  He  bowed 
and  said, — 

"  Master,  Mr.  Lynn  sends  his  compliments 
and  desires  to  see  you  in  the  parlor." 

"Tell  Mr.  Lynn  that  I  will  attend  him 
presently,"  said  Randolph  rising  from  his 
knees. — "How  is  our  patient,  Mr.  Hicks  ?" 

"I  left  him  asleep.  He  is  very  weak, 
though  quite  easy." 

"  Mr.  Hicks,  I  desire  that  you  will  attend 
him  throughout  the  day,  or  place  him  in 
the  care  of  some  trustworthy  servant.  If  he 
asks  for  any  one,  send  for  me.  Admit  no 
one  into  his  room, — you  understand,  he  is  a 

*  The  order  of  the  Assji^sins  prevailed  in  Asia,  in  th« 
days  of  the  Crusade?,  and  the  history  of  their  power  ard 
terrible  influence  is  strangely  connected  with  the  history 
of  the  Knights  Templars.  The  founder  of  the  order, 
Hassan  Sabah,  rewarded  his  devotees  for  their  deeds  of 
murder,  by  a  draught  (called  as  above,  the  hashish,) 
whose  powers  of  enchantment  consoled  them  for  a  life- 
time of  hardship  and  danger. 


214 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


dear  friend  of  mine," — he  placed  his  finger 
on  his  forehead, — "  a  little  touched  here,  and 
I  do  not  wish  his  misfortune  to  be  known, 
until  all  the  means  of  recovery,  which  I  have 
at  my  command,  prove  hopeless.  Mr.  Hicks, 
you  will  remember." 

"I  will  remember,  and  attend  to  your 
commands,  master,"  and  Mr.  Hicks  bowed 
like  an  automaton. 

"  Have  this  trunk  removed  to  Miss  Koyal- 
ton's  room,"  said  Randolph,  and  leaving  Mr. 
Hicks,  he  descended  to  the  parlor. 

Through  the  rich  curtains  of  the  eastern 
and  western  windows  of  that  magnificent 
apartment,  the  morning  light  was  dimly 
shining.  The  lofty  walls,  the  pictures,  the 
statues,  the  carpet,  the  mirrors,  all  looked 
grand  and  luxurious  in  the  softened  light. 

Bernard  Lynn  sat  on  the  sofa,  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  parlor,  his  arms  folded  and  his 
countenance  troubled.  As  he  raised  his 
gaze  and  greeted  Randolph,  in  a  kindly  al- 
though absent  way,  Randolph  saw  that  his 
bronzed  visage,  (above  which  rose  masses  of 
snow-white  hair)  was  traced  with  the  lines 
of  anxious  thought,  and  his  dark  eyes  were 
feverish  with  restlessness  and  care. 

"  Sit  by  me,  Randolph,"  he  said  in  a  seri- 
ous voice,  and  he  grasped  Randolph's  hand 
and  gazed  earnestly  in  his  face. — I  wish  to 
speak  with  you.  I  have  traveled  much, 
Randolph,  and  when  matters  press  heavily 
on  my  mind,  I  am  a  blunt  man, — I  use  few 
words.  I  desire  you  to  give  all  imaginable 
emphasis  to  what  I  am  about  to  say. 

Randolph  took  his  hand  and  met  his  gaze; 
but  he  felt  troubled  and  perplexed  at  Ber- 
nard Lynn's  words  and  manner. 

"Briefly,  then,  Randolph, — when  can  you 
leave  the  city  ?" 

Without  knowing  how  the  words  came  to 
his  lips,  Randolph  replied, — "  The  day  after 
to-morrow." 

"Can  you  go  with  us,  by  steamer,  to 
Charleston  ?  I  wish  to  visit  the  scene, — " 
he  paused  as  if  unable  to  proceed, — "the 
scene, —  you  understand  me  ?  And  then, 
after  a  week's  delay,  we  will  go  to  Havanna 
and  spend  the  winter  there.  Will  you  go ' 
with  us  ?"  j 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  emotions  | 
which  these  words  aroused.  Hopes,  fears,  a  j 
picture  of  his  father's  home,  the  conscious- 1 


ness  there  was  a  taint  upon  his  blood, — all 
whirled  like  lightning  through  his  brain. 
But  he  c  id  not  stop  to  analyze  his  thoughts, 
but  answered  again, — as  though  the  word 
was  given  to  him, — in  a  single  word,  earnest 
in  tone,  and  with  a  hearty  grasp, — 

"  Willingly,"  he  said. 

A  ray  of  pleasure  flitted  over  the  bronzed 
face  of  Bernard  Lynn.  But  in  an  instant 
he  was  sad  and  earnest  again.  "  Randolph, 
I  have  been  thinking,  and  most  seriously, — 
I  beg  you  to  listen  to  the  result  of  my 
thoughts.  Nay,  not  a  word, — fewest  words 
are  best,  and  a  plain  answer  to  a  plain  ques- 
tion Avill  decide  all. — I  have  been  thinking 
of  the  desolate  condition  in  which  Eleanor 
will  be  left,  in  case  her  father  is  suddenly 
taken  away.  She  will  need  a  friend,  a  pro- 
tector, a  husband." 

He  paused;  Randolph,  all  agitation, 
awaited  his  next  word  in  breathless  sus- 
pense. 

"I  have  long  known  her  feelings, — she 
tells  me  that  she  knows  yours.  You  are 
aware  of  my  fortune  and  position, — I  am 
aware  of  yours.  Plainly,  then,  do  you  love 
her, — do  you  desire  her  hand  ?" 

For  a  moment  Randolph  could  not  reply. 

"  0,  my  dearest  friend,  can  you  ask  it  ?" 
he  exclaimed,  taking  both  hands  of  Mr. 
Lynn  in  his  own, — "  Do  I  desire  Eleanor's 
hand  ?    It  is  the  only  wish  of  my  life, — " 

"  Enough,  my  friend,  enough,"  replied 
Bernard,  as  a  tear  stole  down  his  cheek. 
"In  serious  matters,  I  am  a  man  of  few 
words, — I  fear  that  I  may  be  suddenly  taken 
away — I  feel  that  there  is  no  use  of  delay. 
Shall  it  take  place  this  evening  in  your 
house  ?" 

Randolph  could  only  reply  by  a  silent 
grasp  of  the  hand. 

"  In  presence  of  your  sister,  myself  and 
the  clergyman  ?  And  then,  the  day  after 
to-morrow  we  leave  for  Charleston  — " 

"  You  speak  the  dearest  wish  of  my  soul," 
was  all  that  Randolph  could  reply. 

Bernard  Lynn  arose, — "  I  will  go  out  and 
buy  a  bridal  present  for  my  child,"  he  said, 
"  and  your  sister  and  myself  will  take  charge 
of  all  the  details  of  the  marriage.  God  bless 
you,  my  boy  !  What  a  load  is  lifted  from 
my  heart !" 

How  over  his  bronzed  visage,  a  look  cor- 


DAY,  SUXSET,  NIGHT. 


245 


dial  an.i  joyous  as  the  spring  sunshine  played, 
even  while  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes ! 

Kandolph  felt  his  heart  swell  with  rapture, 
but  instantly, — growing  pale  as  death, — 
he  rose,  and  resolved  to  make  a  revelation, 
which  would  blast  all  his  hopes  to  ashes. 

"  I  will  not  deceive  this  good  old  man.  I 
will  tell  him  my  real  condition,  tell  him  that 
there  is  the  blood  of  the  accursed  race  in  my 
veins." 

This  was  his  thought,  and  feeling  like  a 
criminal  on  the  scaffold,  he  prepared  to  fulfill 
it,— 

"Ah,  you  and  I  are  agreed,"  cried  Ber- 
nard, with  his  usual  jovial  laugh. — "  but  you 
must  ask  this  child  what  she  says  of  the 
matter,"  and  dropping  Kandolph's  hand,  he 
hurried  from  the  room. 

Even  as  the  first  word  of  the  confession 
was  on  his  lip,  Kandolph  beheld  Eleanor, 
who  had  entered  unperceived,  standing  be- 
tween him  and  the  light,  on  the  very  spot 
which  her  father  had  just  left. 

She  looked  very  beautiful. 

Clad  in  a  dark  dress,  which,  fitting  closely 
to  her  arms  and  bust,  and  flowing  in  rich 
folds,  around  her  womanly  proportions,  from 
the  waist  to  the  feet,  she  stood  before  him, 
one  finger  raised  to  her  lip,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  him  in  a  gaze,  full  of  deep  and  pas- 
sionate light.  Her  face  was  cast  into  faint 
shadow,  by  her  hair,  which  was  disposed 
about  it,  in  brown  and  wavy  masses.  But 
through  the  shadow  her  eyes  shone  with 
deep  and  passionate  light. 

A  very  beautiful  Avoman,  now  unable  to 
Titter  a  word,  as  with  heaving  breast,  she  con- 
fronts the  man  whom  she  knows  is  destined 
to  be  her  husband. 

Why  does  all  thought  of  confession  fade 
from  Kandolph's  mind  ? 

0,  the  atmosphere  of  the  presence  of  a 
pure,  and  beautiful  woman,  whose  eyes 
gleam  upon  you  with  passionate  love,  carries 
with  it  an  enchantment,  which  makes  you 
forget  the  whole  universe,  —  everything, — 
save  that  she  is  before  you,  that  she  loves 
you,  that  your  soul  is  chained  to  her  eyes. 

Kandolph  silently  stretched  forth  his  arms. 
She  came  to  him,  and  laid  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  her  bosom  upon  his  breast. 

"  My  wife  !"  he  whispered. 

And  she  raised  her  face,  until  their  lips 


and  their  eyes,  met  at  once,  whispering  — 
"  My  husband." 

******* 

Certainly,  this  was  a  happy  day  for  Kan- 
dolph Koyalton. 

Talk  of  opium,  hashish,  dream-elixir ! 
Talk  of  their  enchantment,  and  of  the  Ma- 
homet's paradise  which  they  create  !  What 
enchantment  can  rival  the  pressure  of  a  pure 
woman's  lips,  which  breathe  softly,  "  hus- 
band !"  as  she  lays  them  against  your 
own  ? 

But  at  least  a  dozen  gentlemen  who  have 
divorce  cases  on  hand,  will  curse  me  bitterly 
for  writing  the  last  sentence.  And  all  the 
old  bachelors  who,  having  never  known  the 
kiss  of  a  pure  wife,  or  any  wife  at  all,  and 
having  grown  musty  in  their  sins,  will  turn 
away  with  an  **  umph  1"  and  an  oath.  And 
all  the  young  libertines,  Vvrho,  deriving  their 
opinion  of  women,  merely  from  the  unfaith- 
ful wives,  and  abandoned  creatures  with 
whom  they  have  herded,  and  having  ex- 
pended even  before  the  day  of  young  man- 
hood, every  healthy  throb,  in  shameless 
excess,  they,  too,  will  expand  their  faded 
eyes,  and  curl  their  colorless  lips,  at  the  very 
mention  of  "  a  pure  woman,"  much  less,  a 
"pure  woman's  kiss."  The  "fast,"  the  very 
"  fast "  boys  ! 

But  there  are  some  who  will  not  utterly 
dislike  the  allusion  to  a  pure  woman,  or  a 
pure  woman's  kiss. 

That  quiet  sort  of  people  who,  having  no 
divorce  cases  on  hand,  know  that  there  are 
such  things  as  pure  women  in  the  world,  and 
know  that  a  good  wife,  carries  about  her  an 
atmosphere  of  goodness,  that  brings  heaven 
itself  down  to  the  home. 

And  you,  old  bachelor, — a  word  in  your 
ear,  —  if  you  only  knew  the  exjDerience  of 
returning  from  a  long  journey  late  at  night,— 
of  stealing  quietly  into  a  home,  your  own 
home,  up  the  dark  stairs,  and  into  a  room, 
where  a  single  light  is  shining  near  a  bed, — 
of  seeing  there,  blooming  on  the  white  pil- 
low, the  face  of  a  pure  ^ife,  your  own  wife, 
rosy  with  sleep,  and  with  her  dark  hair 

peeping  out  from  her  night-cap  ,  why, 

old  bachelor,  if  you  had  only  an  idea  of  this 
kind  of  experience,  you'd  curse  yourself  for 
not  getting  married  some  forty  years  ago  !  — ■ 
*  ****** 


246 


DAT,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


The  day  passed  quickly  and  liappily,  in 
quiet  preparation  for  the  bridal  ceremony. 
******* 

Eleanor  was  seated  in  a  rocking-chair,  her 
feet  crossed  and  resting  on  a  stool,  her  head 
thrown  back,  and  her  dark  hair  resting  partly 
on  her  bared  shoulders,  partly  on  the  arm  of 
Esther,  who  stood  behind  her.  The  beams 
of  the  declining  sun  came  softened  through 
the  window-curtains,  and  lit  up  the  scene 
with  mild,  subdued  light.  It  was  a  beautiful 
picture.  There  stood  Esther,  the  matured 
woman,  rich  in  every  charm  of  voluptuous 
and  stately  beauty  ;  and  her  gaze,  softened 
by  her  long  eyelashes,  was  tenderly  fixed 
upon  the  upturned  countenance  of  Eleanor, 
— a  countenance  radiant  with  youth,  with 
abounding  life,  with  passionate  love.  The 
habit  of  dark  green  cloth  which  Esther  wore, 
contrasted  with  the  robe  of  white  muslin  which 
enveloped  Eleanor,  its  flowing  folds  girdled 
lightly  about  her  waist  and  its  snowy  white- 
ness, half  hidden  by  her  unbound  hair  ;  for 
that  hair  which  was  soft  brown  in  the  sun- 
light and  black  in  the  shadow,  fell  in  copious 
waves  over  her  neck,  her  bosom,  and  below 
her  waist.  Eleanor  was  beautiful,  Esther 
was  beautiful,  but  their  loveliness  was  of 
contrasted  types  ;  you  could  not  precisely 
define  how  they  difiered  ;  you  only  saw  that 
they  were  beautiful,  and  that  the  loveliness 
of  one,  set  off  and  added  to,  the  charms  of 
the  other. 

And  as  Esther  was  arranging  the  hair  of 
the  bride,  for  the  marriage  ceremony,  they 
conversed  in  low  tones  : 

*'  0,  we  shall  all  be  so  happy  !"  said  Elea- 
nor — "  the  climate  of  Havanna,  is  as  soft 
and  bland  as  It^ily,  and  it  will  be  so  delight- 
ful to  leave  this  dreary  sky,  this  atmosphere 
all  storm  and  snow,  for  a  land  where  sum- 
mer never  knows  an  end,  and  where 
every  breeze  is  loaded  M-ith  the  breath  of 
flowers  1" 

Esther  was  about  to  reply,  but  Eleanor 
continued, — and  her  words  drove  the  life- 
blood  from  Esther's  cheek. 

"  And  on  our  way  we  will  stop  at  the  old 
mansion  of  Hill  Royal,  the  home  of  Ran- 
dolph's ancestors.  How  I  shall  delight  to 
wander  with  you  through  those  fine  old 
rooms,  where  the  associations  of  the  past 
meet  you  at  every  step  !    Do  you  know, 


Esther,  that  I  am  a  great  aristocrat, — I  be- 
lieve in  race,  in  blood, — in  the  perpetua- 
tion of  the  same  qualities,  either  good  or 
evil,  from  generation  to  generation  ?  Look 
at  Randolph,  at  yourself,  for  instance, — your 
look,  your  walk,  every  accent  tell  the  story 
of  a  proud,  a  noble  ancestry  1" 

"  Or,  look  at  yourself,"  was  all  that  Esther 
could  say,  as  she  bent  over  the  happy  bride, 
thus  hiding  her  face, — grown  suddenly  pale, 
—from  the  light.  "  Shall  I  tell  her  all  ?" 
the  thought  flashed  over  her,  as  she  wound 
her  hands  through  the  rich  meshes  of  Elea- 
nor's hair, — "  shall  I  tell  this  beautiful  girl, 
who  is  as  proud  as  she  is  beautiful,  that  in 
the  veins  of  her  husband  there  is  —  negro 
blood  ?" 

But  the  very  thought  of  such  a  revelation 
appalled  her. 

"Better  leave  it  to  the  future,"  sha 
thought,  and  then  said  aloud,  "  Tell  me, 
Eleanor,  something  about  Italy." 

And  while  Esther,  with  sisterly  hands, 
arrayed  her  for  the  bridal,  the  proud  and 
happy  bride,  whose  every  vein  swelled  with 
abounding  life  and  love,  spoke  of  Italy, — of 
its  skies  and  its  monuments, — of  the  hour 
when  she  first  met  Randolph,  and  also  of  the 
moment  when,  amid  the  Appenines,  he 
saved  her  life,  her  honor. 

"  0,  sister,  do  you  think  that  a  love  like  ours 
can  ever  know  the  shadow  of  change  ?" 

Happy  Eleanor ! 

****** 

Meanwhile  Randolph,  standing  by  the 
parlor  window  apparently  gazing  upon  the 
current  of  life  which  Avhirled  madly  along 
Broadway,  in  the  light  of  the  declining  day, 
was  in  reality  abstracted  from  all  external 
existence,  and  buried  in  his  own  thoughts, — 
thoughts  delicious  and  enchanting.  Was 
there  no  phantom  in  the  background,  to  cast 
its  fatal  shadow  over  the  rich  landscaj^e 
which  rose  before  his  mental  eye  ? 

He  was  attired  for  the  marriage  ceremony, 
in  a  severely  plain  costume,  which  well  be- 
came his  thoughtful  face  and  manly  frame, — 
black  dress  coat,  vest  of  while  Marseilles, 
open  collar  and  black  neckerchief.  As  he 
stood  there,  noble-featured,  broad-browed, 
his  clear  blue  eyes  and  dark  hair,  contrasting 
with  his  complexion  whose  extreme  pallor 
indicated  by  no  means  either  lack  of  health 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


or  vigor,  who  would  have  thought  that  there 
was — negro  blood  in  his  veins  ? 

"  In  an  hour  Eleanor  will  be  my  wife  !"  he 
muttered,  and  his  brow  grew  clouded  and 
thoughtful,  even  while  his  eyes  were  filled 
with  passionate  light.  "But  there  is  no  use 
of  reflecting  now.  I  must  leave  that  fatal 
disclosure,  with  all  its  chances  and  conse- 
quences, to  the  future.  Eleanor  will  be  my 
wife,  come  what  will." 

His  meditations  were  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  Mr.  Hicks,  who  wore  his  usual 
imperturbable  look,  which  seemed  as  much 
a  part  of  him  as  his  livery  of  gray  turned  up 
with  black. 

"How  has  bur  patient  been  since  I  left 
him  an  hour  ago  ?"  asked  Eandolph. 

*'  He  is  no  longer  delirious,"  answered  Mr. 
Hicks.  "  About  a  half  an  hour  ago,  he  asked 
me  the  time  of  day,  in  a  tone,  and  with  a 
look,  that  showed  that  he  had  come  to  his 
senses." 

"  You  conversed  with  him  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  He  fell  into  a  quiet  sleep,  and  I 
left  him  in  charge  of  a  faithful  servant. 
Don't  you  think  we  had  better  change  the 
bandages  on  his  back,  after  awhile  ?  He  has 
been  sadly  abused  " 

"And  I  came  to  the  scene  of  conflict  just 
in  time  to  save  his  life,  and  bear  him  to  my 
home, — I  will  see  him  at  once,  and  then  tell 
you  when  to  dress  his  wounds." 

He  moved  toward  the  door. 

"  Has  Mr.  Lynn  returned  ?"  he  said,  turn- 
ing his  head  over  his  shoulder. 

"  About  half  an  hour  since,  he  went  up 
stairs  to  his  room,"  returned  Mr.  Hicks. 

Eandolph  left  the  parlor  and  hastened  to- 
ward his  own  chamber,  determined  to  make 
cue  more  effort  to  change  the  hard  nature, 
the  unrelenting  hatred  of  his  brother.  As 
he  passed  along  the  corridor,  conscious  that 
the  most  important  crisis,  if  not  the  all-im- 
portant crisis,  of  his  life  was  near,  his  thoughts 
mingling  the  image  of  Eleanor  with  the 
proud  memory  of  his  lineage  on  the  father's 
side,  were  intense  and  all-absorbing.  For 
the  time  he  forgot  the  taint  in  his  blood. 

He  arrived  before  the  door  of  the  cham- 
ber in  which  his  brother  lay.  It  was  near 
the  foot  of  a  broad  staircase  which,  thickly 
carpeted,  and  with  bannisters  of  walnut, 
darkened  by  time,  was  illumined  by  light 
16 


from  the  skylight  far  above.  The  door  of 
the  chamber  was  slightly  open, — Randolph 
started,  for  he  heard  his  brother's  voice, 
speaking  in  rapid,  impetuous  tones.  And 
the  next  instant,  the  voice  of  Bernard  Lynn, 
hoarse  with  anger,  Randolph,  with  his  step 
upon  the  threshold,  drew  back  and  listened. 

He  did  not  pause  to  ask  himself  how  Ber- 
nard Lynn  came  to  be  a  visitor  in  the  cham- 
ber of  his  brother, — he  only  listened  to  their 
voices, — with  all  his  soul,  he  tried  to  distin- 
guish their  words. 

It  was  the  moment  of  his  life.  It  re- 
quired a  terrible  exertion  of  will,  to  suppress 
the  cry  of  despair  which  rose  to  his  lips. 

"A  negro  !"  he  heard  the  voice  of  Ber- 
nard Lynn,  hoarse  with  rage, — "and  to  my 
daughter !    Never  !" 

And  then  the  voice  of  Harry  Royalton, 
whose  life  he  had  spared  and  saved, — "I 
heard  of  this  marriage  from  one  of  the  ser- 
vants, and  felt  it  my  duty  to  set  you  on  your 
guard.  Therefore,  I  sent  for  you.  I  can 
give  you  proof, — proof  that  will  sink  tha 
slave  into  the  earth." 

Once  more  the  voice  of  Bernard  Lynn, — 
"  A  negro  !  and  about  to  marry  him  to  my 
daughter  !    A  negro  ! " 

There  was  the  hatred  of  a  whole  life  em- 
bodied in  the  way  he  pronounced  that  word, 
— "  a  negro  !" 

Randolph  laid  his  hand  against  the  wall, 
and  his  head  sank  on  his  breast.  He  was 
completely  unnerved. 

The  hopes  of  his  life  were  ashes. 

Once  more,  with  a  terrible  exertion,  he 
rallied  himself,  and  with  the  thought, — 
"  There  remains,  at  least,  revenge  ! " — he  ad- 
vanced toward  the  threshold. 

But  there  was  a  footstep  on  the  stair. 
Turning,  Randolph  beheld  Eleanor,  who  was 
slowly  descending  the  stairs.  She  was  clad 
in  her  bridal  dress.  The  light  shone  full 
upon  her ;  she  was  radiantly  beautiful.  She 
wore  a  robe  of  snow-white  satin,  girdled 
lightly  to  her  waist  by  a  string  of  pearls,  and 
over  this  a  robe  of  green  velvet,  veined  with 
flowers  of  gold,  and  open  in  front  from  her 
bosom  to  her  feet.  Her  hair  was  disposed  in 
rich  masses  about  her  face,  and  from  its 
glossy  blackness,  and  from  the  pure  white  of 
her  forehead,  a  circlet  of  diamonds  shone 
dazzlingly  in  the  light.    She  saw  Randolph, 


248 


and  her  eyes  spoke  altbough  her  lips  were 
eilent. 

That  moment  decided  her  fate  and  his  own. 

As  she  was  halfway  down  the  stairs,  he 
sprang  to  meet  her. 

"  Randolph  !  how  pale  you  are,"  and  she 
started  as  she  saw  his  face. 

"  Dearest,  I  must  speak  with  you  a  mo- 
ment," he  whispered. — "  To  the  library." 

He  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  up 
the  stairs,  and  along  a  corridor  ;  she  noticed 
that  his  hand  was  hot  and  cold  by  turns,  and 
she  began  to  tremble  in  sympathy  with  his 
agitation. 

They  came  to  the  door  of  the  library. 
The  lock  was  turned  from  the  outside  by  a 
key,  but  when  the  door  was  closed  it  locked 
itself.  Randolph  found  the  key  in  the  lock  ; 
he  turned  it ;  the  door  opened ;  he  placed 
the  key  in  his  pocket ;  they  crossed  the 
threshold.  The  door  closed  behind  them, 
and  was  locked  at  once.  Eleanor  was  igno- 
rant of  this  fact. 

The  library  was  a  spacious  apartment,  with 
two  windows  opening  to  the  east,  and  a  ceil- 
ing which  resembled  a  dome.  The  light 
came  dimlythrough  the  closed  curtains,  but 
a  wood-fire,  smouldering  on  the  broad  hearth, 
which  now  flamed  up,  and  as  suddenly  died 
away,  served  to  disclose  the  high  walls,  lined 
with  shelves,  the  table  in  the  center  over- 
spread with  books  and  papers,  and  the  pic- 
ture above  the  mantle,  framed  in  dark  wood. 
Two  antique  arm-chairs  stood  beside  the  ta- 
ble ;  there  was  a  sofa  between  the  windows, 
and  in  each  corner  of  the  room,  a  statue  was 
placed  on  a  pedestal.  The  shelves  were 
crowded  with  huge  volumes,  whose  gilt 
bindings,  though  faded  by  time,  glittered  in 
the  uncertain  light.  Altogether,  as  the  light 
now  flashed  up  and  died  away  again,  it  was 
an  apartment  reminding  you  of  old  times, — 
of  ghosts  and  specters,  may  be, — but  of  any- 
thing save  the  present  century. 

"  What  a  ghost-like  place  !"  said  Eleanor. 

Randolph  led  her  in  silence  to  the  sofa, 
and  seated  himself  by  her  side. 

"Eleanor,  I  am  sadly  troubled.  I  have 
•ust  received  a  letter  which  informs  me  of  a 
sad  disaster  which  has  happened  to  a  friend, 
— a  friend  whom  I  have  known  from  boy- 
hood." 

Eleanor  took  his  hand.    As  the  light 


flashed  up  for  an  instant,  she  was  startled  at 
the  sight  of  his  face. 

"  Compose  yourself,  Randolph,"  she  said, 
kindly. — "  The  news  may  not  be  so  disas- 
trous as  you  think." 

"I  will  tell  you  the  story  in  a  few  words," 
and  he  took  her  hand  as  he  continued  :  "  A 
month  ago,  I  left  my  friend  in  Charleston. 
Young,  reputed  to  be  wealthy,  certainly  con- 
nected with  one  of  the  first  families  of  South 
Carolina,  he  was  engaged  in  marriage  to  a 
beautiful  girl, — one  of  the  most  beautiful  that 
sun  ever  shone  upon, — "  he  paused, — "aa 
beautiful,  Eleanor,  as  yourself." 

And  he  fixed  his  ardent  gaze  upon  that 
face  which  the  soft  shadow,  broken  now  and 
then  by  the  uncertain  light,  invested  with 
new  loveliness. 

Eleanor  made  no  reply  in  words  ;  but  her 
eyes  met  those  of  her  plighted  husband. 

"  The  day  was  fixed  for  their  marriage, — 
they  looked  forward  to  it  with  all  the  anti- 
cipations of  a  pure  and  holy  love.  It  came, — 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  stood  before  the 
altar,  in  presence  of  the  wedding-guests, — 
the  priest  began  the  ceremony,  when  a  reve- 
lation was  made  which  caused  the  bride  to 
fall  like  one  dead  at  the  feet  of  her  abashed 
and  despair-stricken  lover." 

*'  This  was,  indeed,  strange,"  whispered 
Eleanor,  profoundly  interested ;  "  and  this 
revelation  ?" 

Randolph  drew  her  nearer  to  him;  his 
eyes  grew  deeper  in  their  light,  as  in  a  voice, 
that  grew  lower  at  every  word,  he  continued. 
The  bridegroom  was,  indeed,  connected 
with  one  of  the  first  families  in  the  State, 
but  even  as  the  priest  began  the  ceremony, 
a  voice  from  among  the  guests  pronounced 
these  words,  *  Shame  !  shame  !  a  woman  so 
beautiful  to  marry  a  man  who  has  negro 
blood  in  his  veins  !'  " 

"And  these  words, — they  were  not  true  ?" 
eagerly  asked  Eleanor,  resting  her  hand  on 
Randolph's  arm. 

*'  They  were  true,"  answered  Randolph. 
"  It  was  their  fatal  truth  which  caused  the 
bride  to  fall  like  a  corpse,  and  covered  the 
face  of  the  bridegroom  with  shame  and  de- 
spair." 

Eleanor's  bosom  heaved  above  the  edge  o 
her  bridal  robe  ;  her  lips  curled  with  scorn  ; 
"And  knowing  this  fatal  truth,  this  lover 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


249 


sought  her  hand  in  marriage  ?  0,  shame  ! 
shame  !" 

"But  hear  the  sequel  of  the  story,"  Ran- 
dolph continued,  and  well  it  was  for  him,  at 
that  instant,  that  no  sudden  glow  from  the 
hearth  lit  up  his  livid  and  corrugated  face, — 
"What,  think  you,  was  the  course  of  the 
plighted  wife,  when  she  came  to  her  senses?" 

"She  spurned  from  her  side  this  unworthy 
lover,  —  she  crushed  every  thought  of 
love — " 

"  No,  dearest,  no  !  Even  in  the  presence 
of  her  father  and  the  wedding-guests,  she 
took  the  bridegroom  by  the  hand,  and  al- 
though her  face  was  pale  as  death,  said,  with 
a  firm  eye  and  unfaltering  voice,  'Behold 
my  husband  !  As  heaven  is  above  us,  I 
will  wed  none  but  him  ! ' " 

"  0,  base  and  shameless  !  base  and  shame- 
less !"  cried  Eleanor,  the  scorn  of  her  tone 
and  of  her  look  beyond  all  power  of  ^^•ords, — 
"to  speak  thus,  and  take  by  the  hand  a 
man  whose  veins  were  polluted  by  the  blood 
of  a  thrice  accursed  race  !" 

Randolph  raised  his  hand  to  his  fore- 
head ;  what  thoughts  Avere  burning  there, 
need  not  be  told.  Shading  his  eyes,  he 
saw  Eleanor  before  him,  beautiful  and  vo- 
luptuous, in  her  bridal  robe,  her  bosom 
swelling  into  view ;  but  with  unmeasured 
scorn  in  the  curve  of  her  proud  lip,  in 
the  lightning  glance  of  her  eyes. 

And  after  that  gaze,  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
i    the  fatal  words, — 

I  "  Eleanor,  what  would  you  say,  were 
I  to  inform  you,  that  my  veins  are  also 
polluted  by  the  blood  of  this  thrice  accursed 
race  ?" 

She  did  not  utter  a  cry ;  she  did  not 
shriek ;  but  starting  from  the  sofa,  and  rest- 
ing for  support  one  hand  against  the  wall, 
>  she  turned  to  him  her  horror-stricken  face, 
uttering  a  single  word, — "  You  ?" 

"  That  I,  descended  from  one  of  the  first 
families  of  Carolina,  on  my  father's  side,  am 
i  on  the  mother's  side,  connected  with  the 
accursed  race  ?" 

"  You,  Randolph,  you  !" 

"  That  knowing  this,  I  fled  from  Florence, 
when  first  I  won  your  love  ;  but  to-day, 
dazzled  by  your  beauty,  mad  with  love  of 
the  very  atmosphere  in  which  you  breathe, 
I  forgot  the  taint  in  my  blood,  I  saw  our  | 


marriage  hour  draw  nigh,  with  heaven  itself 
in  my  heart  — " 

"  0,  my  God,  why  can  I  not  die  ?" 

"That  even  now  your  father  knows  the 
fatal  secret,  and  breathes  curses  upon  me,  as 
he  pronounces  my  name  ;  resolves,  that 
you  shall  die  by  his  hand,  ere  you  become 
my  wife — " 

She  saw  his  face,  by  the  sudden  light, — 
it  was  impressed  by  a  mortal  agony.  And 
although  the  room  seemed  to  swim  around, 
and  her  knees  bent  under  her,  she  rallied  her 
fast-fading  strength,  and  advanced  toward 
him,  but  with  tottering  steps. 

"  You  are  either  mad,  or  you  wish  to  drive 
me  mad,"  she  said,  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder, — "there  is  no  taint  upon  your 
blood  !  The  thought  is  idle.  You,  so  noble 
browed,  with  the  look,  the  voice,  the  soul 
of  a  man  of  genius, — you,  that  I  love  so 
madly,  —  you,  one  of  the  accursed  race  ? 
No,  Randolph,  this  is  but  a  cruel  jest — " 

Her  eyes  looked  all  the  brighter  for  the 
pallor  of  her  face,  as  she  bent  over  him,  and 
her  hair,  escaping  from  the  diamond  circlet, 
fell  over  his  face  and  shoulders  like  a  vail. 

He  drew  her  to  him,  and  buried  his  face 
upon  her  bosom,  —  "  Eleanor  !  Eleanor," 
he  groaned  in  very  bitterness  of  spirit,  as 
that  bosom  beat  against  his  fevered  brow, 
and  that  flowing  hair  shut  him  in  its  glossy 
waves, — "  It  is  no  jest.  I  swear  it.  But 
you  will  yet  be  mine  !  Will  you  not,  Elea- 
nor,— in  spite  of  everything, — spite  of  the 
taint  in  my  blood,  spite  of  your  father's 
wrath — " 

As  with  the  last  eS'ort  of  her  expiring 
strength,  she  raised  his  head  from  her  bosom, 
tore  herself  from  his  arms,  and  stood  before 
him,  her  hair  streaming  back  from  her  pallid 
face,  while  her  right  hand  was  lifted  to 
heaven — 

"  It  is  true,  then  ?"  and  her  eyes  wore 
that  look,  which  revealed  all  the  pride  of 
her  nature, — "you  are  then,  one  of  that 
accursed  race,"  she  paused,  unable  to  pro- 
ceed, and  stood  there  with  both  hands  upon 
her  forehead.  "  If  I  ever  wed  you,  may  my 
mother's  curse — " 

Randolph  rose,  the  anguish  which  had 
stamped  his  face,  suddenly  succeeded  by  a 
look  which  we  care  not  to  analyze, — a  look 
which  gave  a  glow  «o  his  pale  cheek,  a  wild 


250 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


gleam  to  his  eyes.  "  You  are  faint,  my  love," 
he  said,  "  this  will  revive  you." 

Seizing  her  by  the  waist,  he  placed  her 
kerchief  upon  her  mouth, — a  kerchief  which 
he  had  raised  from  the  floor,  and  moistened 
with  liquid  from  the  silver  vial  which  he 
carried  in  his  vest  pocket. 

"Away!  Your  touch  is  pollution!"  she 
cried,  struggling  in  his  embrace,  but  the 
efifect  of  the  liquid  was  instantaneous.  Even 
as  she  struggled  her  powers  of  resistance 
failed,  and  the  images  of  a  delicious  dream, 
seemed  to  pass  before  her,  in  soft  and  rosy 
light. 

The  tall  wax  candles  were  lighted  in  the 
parlor,  and  upon  a  table  covered  with  a 
cloth  of  white  velvet  was  placed  a  bible  and 
a  wreath  of  flowers. 

It  was  the  hour  of  sunset,  but  the  closed 
curtains  shut  out  the  light  of  the  declining 
day,  and  the  light  of  the  wax  candles  dis- 
closed the  spacious  apartment,  its  pictures, 
statues  and  luxurious  furniture.  It  was  the 
hour  of  the  bridal. . 

Two  persons  were  seated  near  each  other 
on  one  of  the  sofas.  The  preacher  who  had 
been  summoned  to  celebrate  the  marriage, — 
a  grave,  demure  man,  with  a  sad  face  and 
iron-gray  hair.  Of  course  he  wore  black 
clothes  and  a  white  cravat.  Esther  arrayed 
in  snow-white,  as  the  bridesmaid,  —  white 
flowers  in  her  dark  hair,  and  her  bosom 
heaving  dimly  beneath  lace  which  reminded 
you  of  a  flake  of  new-fallen  snow. 

They  were  waiting  for  the  father,  the 
bridegroom,  and  the  bride. 

"  It  will  be  a  happy  marriage,  I  doubt  not," 
said  the  preacher,  who  had  been  gazing  out 
of  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  at  the  beautiful 
Esther,  and  who  felt  embarrassed  by  the 
long  silence. 

But  ere  Esther  could  reply,  the  door  was 
flung  abruptly  open,  and  Bernard  Lynn 
strode  into  the  room.  His  hat  was  in  his 
hand  •  his  cloak  hung  on  his  arm.  His  face 
was  flushed  ;  his  brow  clouded.  Not  seem-  |  voice,  and  Randolph  stood  before  the  en- 
ing  to  notice  the  presence  of  Esther,  he  ad-  |  raged  father.    He  was  ashy  pale,  but  there 


Turning  to  Mr.  Hicks,  who  had  followed 
him  into  the  room,  Bernard  Lynn  continued, 
as  he  flung  his  cloak  over  his  shoulders,  and 
drew  on  his  gloves, — 

"  Has  the  carriage  come  ?" 
"  Yes,  sir,—" 

"  Are  our  trunks  on  behind  ?" 
"  Yes,  sir,—" 

"  Have  you  called  my  daughter,  and  told 
her  that  I  desired  her  to  put  on  her  bonnet 
and  cloak,  and  come  to  me  at  once  ? — " 

"  I  have  sent  one  of  the  maids  up  to  her 
room,"  said  Mr.  Hicks,  whose  countenance 
manifested  no  small  degree  of  astonishment, 
"  but  your  daughter  is  not  in  her  room." 

Mr.  Lynn  turned  his  flushed  face  and 
clouded  brow  to  Esther, — 

"  Perhaps  you  will  tell  my  daughter,"  he 
said,  with  an  air  of  insolent  hauteur  as 
though  speaking  to  a  servant, — "  that  I  de- 
sire her  to  put  on  her  things  and  leave  this 
house  with  me,  immediately — " 

How  changed  his  manner,  from  the  kind 
and  paternal  tone,  in  which  he  had  addressed 
her  an  hour  before  ! 

Esther  keenly  felt  the  change,  and  with 
her  woman's  intuition,  divined  that  a  reve- 
lation of  the  fatal  truth  had  been  made. 
Disguising  her  emotion,  she  said,  calmly, — 

You  will  direct  one  of  the  servants  to  do 
your  bidding.  Your  daughter  is  doubtless 
in  the  library.  I  saw  her  going  there,  with 
Randolph,  only  a  few  minutes  since, — " 

At  the  name  of  Randolph,  all  the  rage 
which  shook  the  muscular  frame  of  Bernard 
Lynn,  and  which  he  had  but  illy  suppressed, 
burst  forth  unrestrained. 

"  What !"  he  shouted,  "  with  Randolph  ! 
The  negro  !    The  negro  !    The  slave  !" 

"  With  Randolph,  her  plighted  husband," 
calmly  responded  Esther. 

"  Negress  !"  sneered  Bernard  Lynn,  almost 
beside  himself,  "  where  is  my  daughter  ? 
Will  no  one  call  her  ?" 

"Eleanor  is  coming,"  said  a  low  deep 


vanced  to  the-  clergyman, — 

"  Your  services  will  not  be  needed,  sir," 
he  said,  with  a  polite  bow,  but  with  flashing 
eyes.    "  This  marriage  will  not  take  place." 

Esther  started  to  her  feet,  in  complete 
astonishment. 


was  a  light  in  his  eyes  which  can  be  called 
by  no  other  name  than — infernal. 

Even  Esther,  uttered  a  cry  as  she  beheld 
her  brother's  face.  || 

"  Negro  !"  muttered  Bernard  Lynn,  re- 
1  garding  Randolph  in  profound  contempt. 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


251 


"Well  ?"  Randolph  folded  his  arms,  and 
steadily  returned  his  gaze. 

"  I  have  learned  the  secret  in  time,  sir,  in 
time,"  continued  Bernard  Lynn,  "  I  am  about 
to  leave  this  house — " 

Well  ?"  again  exclaimed  Randolph. 

"I  have  saved  her  from  this  horrible 
match, — " 

"  Well  ?"  for  the  third  time  replied  Ran- 
dolph, in  complete  nonchalance,  and  yet  with 
that  infernal  light  in  his  eyes. 

A  step  was  heard.  Can  this  be  Eleanor, 
who  comes  across  the  threshold,  her  dress 
torn,  her  bosom  bared,  her  disheveled  hair 
floating  about  that  face  which  seems  to  have 
been  touched  by  the  hand  of  death  ? 

Her  hands  clasped,  her  eyes  downcast,  she 
came  on,  with  unsteady  step,  and  sank  at 
her  father's  feet  She  did  not  once  raise  her 
eyes,  but  clasped  his  knees  and  buried  her 
face  on  her  bosom. 

"  Eleanor  !  Eleanor  1"  cried  Bernard  Lynn, 
"  what  does  all  this  mean,  my  child  ?  "  and 
he  sought  to  raise  her  from  the  floor,  but 
she  resisted  him,  and  clutched  his  knees. 

"  It  means  that  the  honor  of  your  daugh- 
ter was  saved  once  in  Italy,  by  Randolph 
Royalton, — she  was  grateful,  and  would  have 
manifested  her  gratitude  by  giving  him  her 
hand  in  marriage,  but  she  could  not  do  that, 
for  there  was — negro  blood  in  his  veins.  So, 
as  she  could  not  marry  him,  she  showed  her 
gratitude  in  the  only  way  left  her, — by  the 
gift  of  her  person  without  marriage." 

As  in  a  tone  of  Satanic  triumph,  Randolph 
pronounced  these  words,  a  silence  like  death 
fell  upon  the  scene. 

Bernard  Lynn  stood  for  a  moment  para- 
lyzed ;  but  Esther  came  forward  with  flash- 
ing eyes, — "  0,  you  miserable  coward  !"  she 
cried,  and  with  her  clenched  hand  struck  her 
I  brother,  —  struck   Randolph   on  the  fore- 
I  head. 

And  turning  away  from  him  in  scorn,  she 
raised  Eleanor  in  her  arms. 

Ere  he  could  recover  from  the  surprise 
which  this  blow  caused  him,  Bernard  Lynn 
reached  forward,  his  hands  clenched,  his 
dark  face  purple  with  rage. 

"  Wretch  !  for  this  you  shall  die," — and 
crushed  by  the  very  violence  of  his  rage, 
his  agony,  he  sank  insensible  at  Randolph's 
feeU 


Our  marriage  ceremony  is  postponed  for 
the  present, — good  evening,  sir  !"  said  Ran- 
dolph, turning  to  the  preacher,  who  had  wit- 
nessed this  scene  in  speechless  astonishment. 
"  Mr.  Hicks,  take  care  of  my  friend,  Lynn, 
here,  and  have  him  put  to  bed ;  and  you, 
Esther,  take  care  of  Eleanor :  and  as  for 
myself," — he  turned  his  back  upon  them  all, 
and  left  the  room, — "  I  think  I  will  go  and 
see  my  dear  brother." 

Up-stairs,  with  the  tortures  of  the  damned 
in  his  heart, — up-stairs,  with  the  infernal 
light  in  his  eyes, — a  moment's  pause  at  the 
door  of  his  brother's  room, — and  then  he 
flings  it  open  and  enters. 

Harry  Royalton,  sitting  up  in  bed,  his 
back  against  the  pillows,  was  reading,  by  a 
lamp,  which  stood  on  a  small  table,  by  the 
bedside.  He  was  reading  the  parchment, 
addressed  to  his  father,  one  of  the  seven. 
The  light  shone  on  his  face,  now  changed 
from  its  usual  robust  hue,  to  a  sickly  pallor, 
as  with  his  large  bulging  eyes,  fixed  upon 
the  parchment,  he  quietly  smoked  a  cigar, 
and  by  turns  passed  his  hands  over  his  bushy 
whiskers  and  through  his  thick  curling  hair. 
Weak  from  pain  and  loss  of  blood,  he  still 
enjoyed  his  cigar.  There  was  a  pleasant 
complacency  about  his  lips.  To-morrow 
was  the  twenty-fifth  of  December,  and  to- 
day— he  had  foiled  all  the  plans  of  his  slave 
brother.  Harry  was  satisfied  with  himself 
The  smoke  of  the  Havanna  floated  round 
him  and  among  the  curtains  of  the  bed.  It 
was,  take  it  all  in  all,  a  picture. 

It  was  in  this  moment  of  quiet  compla- 
cency, that  Randolph  appeared  upon  the 
scene.  Harry  looked  up,  —  he  caught  the 
glare  of  his  eyes,  —  and  at  once  looked 
about  him  for  a  bowie-knife  or  pistol.  But 
there  were  no  weapons  near.  With  a  cry 
for  help,  Harry  sprang  from  the  bed,  clad  as 
he  was,  only  in  his  shirt  and  drawers.  Ho 
cried  for  help,  but  only  once,  for  ere  he 
could  utter  a  second  cry,  there  was  a  hand 
upon  his  throat. 

"  I'm  not  a  brother  now, — only  a  slave, — 
it  was  as  a  brother,  last  night,  I  spared  and 
saved  you, — now  I'm  only  a  slave,  a  negro  ! 
But  as  a  slave  and  negro,  I  am  choking  you 
to  death  ! " 

Harry  might  as  well  have  battled  with  a 
thunderbolt    Randolph,  with  the  madman'a 


252 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


fire  in  liis  eyes,  bears  him  to  the  floor,  puts 
his  knee  upon  his  breast,  and  tightens  his 
clutch  upon  his  throat.  And  as  a  gurgling 
noise  sounded  in  the  throat  of  the  poor 
wretch,  Randolph  bent  his  face  nearer  to 
him,  and  (to  use  an  all-expressive  Scotch 
word)  glowered  upon  him  with  those  mad- 
man's eyes. 

"  This  time  there  must  be  no  mistake, 
brother.  The  world  is  large  enough  for 
many  millions  of  people,  but  not  large 
enough  for  us  two.  You  must  go,  Harry, — 
master  !  You  are  going  !  Go  and  tell  your 
father  and  mine  how  you  treated  the  chil- 
dren of  Herodia  !    Go  !  " 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  BRIDALS  OF  JOANNA  AND  BEVERLY. 

It  was  the  night  of  December  the  twen- 
ty-fifth, 1844. 

The  mansion  of  Eugene  Livingstone  was 
dark  as  a  tomb.  The  shutters  were  closed, 
and  crape  fluttered  on  the  door. 

Within, — in  the  range  of  parlors,  where, 
last  night,  Eugene  kissed  good-bye  on  the 
lips  of  his  young  and  beautiful  wife,  ere  he 
left  for  Boston, — where,  not  an  hour  after, 
Beverly  Barron  came  and  folded  the  young 
wife  to  his  breast,  ere  he  bore  her  from  her 
home  to  a  haunt  of  shame, — within  a  single 
light  is  burning.  One  light  alone,  in  the 
vast  mansion,  from  foundation  to  roof. 

It  is  a  wax  candle,  placed  in  the  front  par- 
lor, on  a  marble  table,  between  a  sofa  and 
mirror,  which  reaches  from  the  ceiling  to  the 
floor. 

Joanna  is  sitting  there  alone,  her  golden 
hair  neatly  arranged  about  her  blonde  face  ; 
her  noble  form  clad  in  a  flowing  robe  of 
snowy  whiteness.  She  is  very  beautiful. 
True,  her  face  is  very  pale,  but  her  lips  are 
red  and  a  flush  bums  on  each  check.  True, 
beneath  each  eye  a  faint  blue  circle  may  be 
traced,  but  the  eyes  themselves,  blue  as  a 
cloudless  sky  in  June,  shine  wilh  an  inten- 
sity that  almost  changes  their  hue  into  black 
in  the  soft,  luxurious  light.  Joanna  is  very 
beautiful, — a  woman  of  coraniandhig  form 
and  voluptuous  bust, — the  loose  robe  which 
she  wears,  by  its  flowing  folds,  gives  a  new 
charm,  a  more  fascinating  loveliness  to  every 
detail  of  her  figure. 


Holding  the  evening  paper  in  her  right 
hand,  she  beats  the  carpet  somewhat  impa- 
tiently v»'ith  her  satin-slippered  foot. 

Her  eye  rests  upon  a  paragraph  in  the 
evening  paper  : — 

"Affair  in  High  Life. — There  was  a 
rumor  about  town,  to-day,  of  an  affair  of 
honor  in  high  life — among  the  '  upper  ten,' — 
the  truth  of  which,  at  the  hour  of  going  to 
press,  we  are  not  able,  definitely,  to  ascer- 
tain.   The  parties  named  are  the  elegant 

and  distinguished  B  y  B  n,  and 

E  e  L  ng  e,  a  well-known  mem- 
ber of  the  old  aristocracy,  in  the  upper  re- 
gion of  the  city.  A  domestic  difficulty  is 
assigned  as  the  cause  ;  and  one  of  the  parties 
is  stated  to  have  been  severely'-,  if  not  mor- 
tally, wounded.  By  to-morrow  we  hope  to 
be  able  to  give  the  full  particulars." 

Joanna  read  this  paragraph,  and  her  glance 
dropped,  and  she  remained  for  a  long  time 
buried  in  deep  thought. 

"  Will  he  come  ?"  she  said  at  length,  as 
if  thinking  aloud. 

The  silence  of  the  vast  mansion  was  around 
her,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  fill  her  with  awe. 
She  remained  sitting  on  the  sofa,  the  evening 
paper  in  her  hand,  and  her  face  impressed 
with  profound  thought. 

"  Hark  !"  she  ejaculated,  as  a  faint  noise 
was  heard  in  the  hall  without.  She  started, 
but  did  not  rise  from  the  sofa. 

The  door  opened  stealthily,  with  scarcely 
a  perceptible  sound,  and  a  man  clad  in  a 
rough  overcoat,  with  great  white  buttons,  a 
cap  drawn  over  his  brow,  and  a  red  necker- 
chief wound  about  the  collar  of  his  coat, 
came  silently  into  the  room  and  approached 
Joanna. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  she  cried,  as  if  in  alarm, 
— "  Your  business  here  ?" 

"  Joanna,  dearest  Joanna,"  cried  a  famil- 
iar voice,  "  and  has  my  disguise  deceived 
you  ?  It  deceived  the  police,  but  I  did  not 
think  that  it  could  deceive  you  !" 

The  overcoat,  cap  and  neckerchief  were 
thrown  aside,  and  in  an  instant  Beverly  Bar- 
ron was  kneeling  at  Joanna's  feet.  His  tall 
and  not  ungraceful  form  clad  in  blue  coat, 
with  bright  metal  buttons,  white  vest,  black 
pantaloons,  and  patent  leather  boots.  He 
wore  a  diamond  pin,  and  a  heavy  gold  chain* 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


253 


His  whole  appearance  was  that  of  a  gentle- 
man of  leisure,  dressed  for  the  opera  or  a 
select  evening  party.  His  face  was  flushed, 
his  eyes  sparkling,  and  the  flaxen  curls  which 
hung  about  his  brow,  emitted  an  odor  of  co- 
logne or  patcJwuilU. 

"  I  had  to  come, — I  could  not  stay  away 
from  you,  dearest,"  he  said,  looking  up  pas- 
sionately into  her  face.  "All  day  long,  I 
have  dodged  from  place  to  place,  determined 
to  see  you  to-night  or  die." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  looking  into 
the  opposite  mirror,  saw  that  she  was  very 
pale,  but  still  exceedingly  beautiful. 

"  To  risk  so  much,  for  —  my  sake,"  she 
said,  and  threaded  his  curls  with  her  deli- 
cate hand,  and  at  the  same  time  one  of 
those  smiles  which  set  the  blood  on  fire, 
animated  her  lips,  and  disclosed  her  white 
teeth. 

"You  are  beautiful  as  an  angel,  I  vow," 
exclaimed  Beverly,  and  then  glancing  round 
the  vast  apartment, — "  Are  we  all  alone  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,  all  alone,"  she  replied,  "  the  ser- 
vants were  discharged  this  morning,  —  all, 
save  my  maid,  and  she  has  retired  by  my 
orders." 

**  No  danger  of  any  one  calling  ?" 
"  None." 

"  You  are  sure,  dearest  ?  " 

"  No  one  wall  call.  You  are  safe,  and  we 
are  alone,  Beverly  ! "  again  that  smile,  and  a 
sudden  swell  of  the  bosom. 

"  The  body,— the  body  " 

"  Is  at  my  father,  the  general's," — she  re- 
plied to  the  question  before  it  passed  his 
lips. 

"  Then,  indeed,  dearest,  Ave  are  alone,  and 
we  can  talk  of  our  future, — our  future.  We 
must  come  to  a  decision,  Joanna,  and  soon." 

And  half  raising  himself,  as  she  lowered 
her  head,  he  pressed  his  kiss  on  her  lips. 

"  0,  I  do  so  long  to  talk  with  you,  Bev- 
erly," she  murmured. 

"  To-morrow,  dearest,  I  will  be  placed  in 
possession  of  an  immense  fortune.  You  have 
heard  of  the  Van  Huyden  estate  ?" 

She  made  a  sign  in  the  aflSrmative. 

"  I  am  the  heir  of  one-seventh  of  that  im- 
mense estate.  All  the  obstacles  in  the  way 
of  the  seven  heirs  (as  I  was  informed  to-day) 
are  removed.    To-morrow  the  estate  will  be 


divided  ;  I  will  receive  my  portion  without 
scarcely  the  chance  of  disappointment ;  and 

next  day  " 

He  paused  ;  she  bent  down  until  he  felt 
her  breath  on  his  face, — "  Next  day  ?'•  sho 
whispered. 

"  We  will  sail  for  Europe.  A  palace,  in 
Florence,  my  love,  or  in  Venice,  or  some  de- 
lightful nook  of  Sicily,  where,  apart  from  the 
world,  in  an  atmosphere  like  heaven,  we  can 
live  for  each  other.  W  hat  say  you  to  this, 
Joanna  ?" 

"  But  you  forget,"  she  faltered,  "  the  recent 

circumstance,  "  her  face  became  flushed, 

and  then  deathly  pale. 

"  Can  you  live  under  your  father's  eye 
after  what  has  happened  ?"  he  whispered. — 
"  Think  of  it,— he  will  loathe  the  sight  of 
you,  and  make  your  life  a  hell !" 

"  He  will  indeed," — and  she  dropped  her 
head  upon  her  proud  bosom. 

"And  your  brother, — does  he  not  thirst 
for  my  blood  ?" 

"  Ah  !  does  he  ?"  she  cried,  with  a  look 
of  alarm. 

"And  yet,  Joanna,  I  was  forced  into  it. 
I  did  all  I  could  to  avoid  it.  I  even  apolo- 
gized on  the  ground,  and  offered  to  make 
reparation." 

"  You  offered  to  make  reparation  ? "  she 
cried,  "  that  was,  indeed,  noble  I"  and  an 
indescribable  smile  lighted  her  features. 

"Joanna,  dear,  I  have  suffered  so  much 
to-day,  that  I  am  really  faint.  A  glass  of 
that  old  Tokay,  if  you  please,  my  love." 

She  answered  him  with  a  smile,  and  rising 
from  the  sofa,  passed  into  the  darkness  of 
the  second  parlor,  separated  from  the  first  by 
folding-doors. 

"  A  magnificent  woman,  by  Jove  !"  solilo- 
quized Beverly,  as  he  remarked  her  noble 
form. 

After  a  few  moments  she  appeared  again, 
bearing  a  salver  of  solid  gold,  on  which  was 
placed  a  decanter  and  goblet,  both  of  Bohe- 
mian glass, — rich  scarlet  in  color,  veined  with 
flowers  of  purple,  and  blue,  and  gold. 

Never  had  she  seemed  more  beautiful  than 
when  standing  before  him,  she  presented  the 
golden  salver,  with  one  of  those  smiles, 
w^hich  gave  a  deeper  red  to  her  lips,  a  softer 
brightness  to  her  eyes. 

He  filled  the  capacious  goblet  to  the  brim — 


264 


DAY.  SUNSET.  NIGHT. 


for  a  moment  regarded  the  wine  through  the 
delicate  fabric,  with  its  flowers  of  blue,  and 
purple,  and  gold, — and  then  drained  it  at  a 
draught. 

"  Ah  !" — he  smacked  his  lips, — "  that  is 
delicious !" 

"  Eugene's  father  imported  it  some  twenty- 
years  ago,"  said  Joanna,  placing  the  salver 
on  the  table.  "  Come,  Beverly,  I  want  to 
talk  with  you." 

FolIowiDg  the  bewitching  gesture  which 
she  made  with  her  half-lifted  hand,  Beverly 
rose,  and  gently  wound  his  arm  about  her 
waist. 

"  Come,  let  us  walk  slowly  up  and  down 
these  rooms,  now  in  light  and  now  in  dark- 
ness, and  as  we  walk  we  can  talk  freely  to 
each  other." 

And  they  walked,  side  by  side,  over  the 
carpet,  through  that  splendid  suite  of  rooms, 
where  gorgeous  furniture,  pictures,  statues, 
all  spoke  of  luxury  and  wealth.  Hand 
joined  in  hand,  his  arm  about  her  waist,  her 
head  drooping  to  his  shoulder,  and  her  bo- 
som throbbing  near  and  nearer  to  his  breast, 
they  glided  along  ;  now  coming  near  the 
light  in  the  front  room,  and  now  passing  into 
the  shadows  which  invested  the  other  rooms. 
It  was  a  delightful,  nay,  an  intoxicating  tete- 
a-tete. 

"  I  was  thinking,  this  evening,"  she  said, 
as  they  passed  from  the  light,  "  of  the  his- 
tory of  our  love." 

"Ah,  dearest !" 

'*  It  seems  an  age  since  we  first  met,  and 
yet  it's  only  a  year." 

"  Only  a  year  !"  echoed  Beverly,  as  they 
paused  in  a  nook  where  a  delicious  twilight 
prevailed. 

"  Eugene  presented  you  to  me  a  year  ago,  as 
his  dearest  friend, — his  most  tried  and  trusted 
friend.   Do  you  remember,  Beverly  ?" 

He  drew  her  gently  to  him, — there  was 
a  kiss  and  an  embrace. 

"You  discovered  his  infidelity.  You 
brought  me  the  letters  written  to  him  by  the 
person  in  Boston,  for  whom  he  proved  un- 
faithful to  me.  You  brought  them  from 
time  to  time,  and  it  was  your  sympathy  with 
my  wounded  pride, — my  trampled  affection, 
— which  consoled  me  and  kept  me  alive.  It 
was,  Beverly." 

^0^  you  say  so,  dearest^"  and  as  they 


came  into  light  again,  he  felt  her  breast 
throbbing  nearer  to  his  own. 

For  a  moment  they  paused  by  the  table, 
whereon  the  wax  candle  was  burning,  its 
flame  reflected  in  the  lofty  mirror.  Her  face 
half-averted  from  the  light,  as  her  head 
drooped  on  his  shoulder,  she  was  exceedingly 
beautiful. 

"Beverly,"  she  whispered,  and  placed  her 
arm  gently  about  his  neck,  —  the  touch 
thrilled  him  to  the  heart, — "  you  knew  me, 
young,  confiding,  ignorant  of  the  world. 
You  took  pity  on  my  unsuspecting  igno- 
rance, and  day  by  day,  yes  hour  by  hour,  Id 
these  very  rooms,  you  led  me  on,  to  see  the 
full  measure  of  my  husband's  guilt,  and  at 
the  same  time  led  me  to  believe  in  you,  and 
love  you." 

She  paused,  and  passed  her  hand  gently 
among  his  flaxen  curls. 

"  Ah,  love,  you  are  as  good  as  you  are 
beautiful  !"  he  whispered. 

"  Before  you  spoke  thus,  I  had  no  thought 
save  of  my  duty  to  Eugene." 

"Eugene,  who  betrayed  you  !" 

"  Yes,  to  Eugene,  who  betrayed  me,  and 
to  my  child.  After  you  spoke,  I  saw  life  in 
a  new  light.  The  world  did  not  seem  to 
me,  any  longer,  to  be  the  scene  of  dull  quiet 
home-like  duty,  but  of  pleasure, — mad,  pas- 
sionate pleasure, — may  be,  illicit  pleasure, 
purchased  at  any  cost.  And  letter  after  let- 
ter which  you  brought  me,  accompanied  by 
proof  which  I  could  not  doubt,  only  served 
to  complete  the  work, — to  wean  me  from 
my  idol, — false,  false  idol,  Eugene, — and  to 
teach  me  that  this  world  was  not  so  much 
made  for  dull  every-day  duty,  as  for  those 
pleasures  which,  scorning  the  laws  of  the 
common  herd,  develop  into  active  life  every 
throb  of  enjoyment  of  which  we  are  capa- 
ble." 

"Yes,  yes,  love,"  interrupted  Beverly, 
pressing  his  lips  to  hers. 

"And  thus  matters  wore  on,  until  you 
brought  me  the  last,  the  damning  letter.  He 
was  going  to  Boston  to  see  his  dying  broth- 
er,— so  he  pretended, — but  in  reality  to  see 
the  woman  for  whom  he  had  proved  faith- 
less to  me.  When  you  brought  me  this  let 
ter  I  was  mad, — mad, — 0,  Beverly  " 

"  It  was  enough  to  drive  you  mad  1" 

"And  yesterday,  impelled  by  some  vagua 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


255 


idea  of  revenge,  I  consented  to  go  with  you 
to  a  place,  where,  as  you  said,  we  would  see 
something  of  the  world, — where,  in  the  ex- 
citement of  a  masked  ball,  I  might  forget 
my  husband's  faithlessness,  and  at  the  same 
time  show  that  I  did  not  ciu-e  for  his  author- 
ity. Some  idea  of  this  kind  was  in  my 
mind,  and  last  night  when  he  kissed  me,  and 
80  coolly  lied  to  me,  before  his  departure,  0, 
then  Beverly,  then,  I  was  cut  to  the  quick. 
You  came  after  he  had  gone,  and, — and — I 
went  with  you — " 

**  You  did  dearest  Joanna,"  said  Beverly, 
pressing  her  closer  to  his  side. 

They  passed  from  the  light  into  the  sha- 
dows together. 

"And  there,  you  know  what  happened 
there,"  she  said,  as  they  stood  in  the  dark- 
ness. She  clung  nearer  and  nearer  to  him, 
"But  you  know,  Beverly,  you  know,  that  it 
was  not  until  my  senses  were  maddened  by 
vine,"  her  voice  grew  low  and  lower, — "that 
I  gave  my  person  to  you." 

In  the  darkness  she  laid  her  head  upon  his 
breast,  and  put  her  arms  about  his  neck,  her 
bosom  all  the  while  throbbing  madly  against 
his  chest. 

"  0,  you  know,  that  in  the  noble  letters, 
which  you  wrote  to  me  from  time  to  time — 
letters  breathing  a  pure  spiritual  atmosphere, 
— you  spoke  of  your  love  for  me  as  some- 
thing far  above  all  common  loves,  refined 
and  purified,  and  separate  from  all  thought 
of  physical  impurity.  And  yet, — and  yet, — 
last  night  when  half  crazed  by  jealousy,  I 
went  with  you  to  the  place  which  you 
named,  you  took  the  moment,  when  my 
senses  were  completely  delirious  with  wine, 
to  treat  me  as  though  I  had  been  your  wife, 
as  though  you  had  been  the  father  of  my 
child." 

She  sobbed  aloud,  and  would  have  fallen 
to  the  floor  had  he  not  held  her  in  his  arms. 

"  0,  J oanna,  you  vex  yourself  without 
cause,"  he  said,  soothingly, — "  I  love  you, — 
you  know  I  love  you — " 

"  0,  but  would  it  not  be  a  dreadful  thing,  : 
if  you  had  been  deceived  in  regard  to  these 
letters !" 

"  Deceived  ?" 

"  Suppose,  for  instance,  some  one  had 
forged  them,  and  imposed  them  upon  you  ■ 
as  veritable  letters — "  i 


L      "Forged?    This  is  folly  my  love." 
!      "  In  that  case,  you  and  I  would  be  guilty, 
0,  guilty  beyond  power  of  redemption,  and 
,  Eugene  would  be  an  infamously  murdered 
man." 

"Dismiss  these  gloomy  thoughts.  The 
letters  were  true — " 

"  0,  you  are  certain, — certain — " 
"  I  swear  it, — swear  it  by  all  I  hold  dear 
on  earth  or  hope  hereafter." 

"  0,  do  not  swear,  Beverly.  Who  could 
doubt  you  f " 

They  passed  toward  the  light  again.  She 
wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes — those  eyes 
which  shone  all  the  brighter  for  the  tears. 

"And  the  day  after  to-morrow,"  said  Bev- 
erly, as  he  rested  his  hand  upon  her  shoul- 
der,— "  we  will  leave  for  Italy — " 

"  You  have  been  in  Italy  ?"  asked  Jo- 
anna. 

"  0,  yes  dearest,  and  Italy  is  only  another 
name  for  Eden,"  he  replied,  growing  warm, 
even  eloquent — "  there  far  removed  from  a 
cold,  a  heartless  world,  we  will  live,  we 
will  die  together  !" 

"  Would  it  not,"  she  said,  in  a  low  whis- 
per, as  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulders  and 
her  bosom  beating  against  his  own,  she  looked 
up  earnestly  into  his  face,  "  0,  would  it  not 
be  well,  could  we  but  die  at  this  moment, — 
die  now,  when  our  love  is  in  its  youngest 
and  purest  bloom, — die  here  on  this  cold 
earth,  only  to  live  again,  and  live  with  each 
other  in  a  happier  world  ?" 

And  in  her  emotion,  she  wound  her  arms 
convulsively  about  his  neck  and  buried  her 
face  upon  his  breast. 

"  Dismiss  these  gloomy  thoughts," — he 
kissed  her  forehead — "  there  are  many  happy 
hours  before  us  in  this  world,  Joanna. 
Think  not  of  death — " 

"  0,  do  you  know,  Beverly,"  she  raised 
her  face, — it  was  radiant  with  loveliness— 
"  that  I  love  to  think  of  death.  Death,  you 
know,  is  such  a  test  of  sincerity.  Before  it 
falsehood  falls  dumb  and  hypocrisy  drops  its 
mask — " 

"  Nay,  nay  you  must  dismiss  these  gloomy 
thoughts.  You  know  I  love  you  —  you 
know — " 

He  did  not  complete  the  sentence,  but  they 
passed  into  the  darkness  again,  his  arms 
about  her  waist,  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 


256 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


And  there,  in  the  gloom,  he  pressed  her 
to  his  breast,  and  as  she  clung  to  his  neck, 
whispered  certain  words,  which  died  in  mur- 
murs on  her  ear. 

"  No,  no,  Beverly,"  she  answered,  in  a 
voice,  broken  by  emotion,  "  it  cannot  be. 
Consider — " 

"  Cannot  be  ?  And  am  I  not  all  to  you  ?" 
he  said,  impassionately, — "  Yes,  Joanna,  it 
must  be — " 

There  was  a  pause,  only  broken  by  low 
murmurs,  and  passionate  kisses. 

"  Come  then,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  come, 
husband — " 

Without  another  word,  she  took  him  by 
the  hand,  and  led  him  from  the  room  out 
into  the  darkened  hall.  Her  hand  trembled 
very  much,  as  she  led  him  through  the 
darkness  up  the  broad  stairway.  Then  a 
door  was  opened  and  together  they  entered 
the  bed-chamber. 

It  is  the  same  as  it  was  last  night.  Only 
instead  of  a  taper  a  wax  candle  burns  brightly 
before  a  mirror.'  The  curtains  still  fall  like 
snow-flakes  along  the  lofty  windows,  the 
alabaster  vase  is  still  filled  with  flowers, — 
they  are  withered  now, — and  from  the  half- 
shadowed  alcove,  gleams  the  white  bed,  with 
curtains  enfolding  it  in  a  snowy  canopy. 

Trembling,  but  beautiful  beyond  the  power 
of  words, — beautiful  in  the  flush  of  her 
cheeks,  the  depth  of  her  gaze,  the  passion 
of  her  parted  lips, — beautiful  in  every  mo- 
tion of  that  bosom  which  heaved  madly 
against  the  fblds  which  only  half- concealed 
it, — trembling,  she  led  him  toward  the  bed. 

"  My  marriage  bed,"  she  whispered,  and 
laid  her  hand  upon  the  closed  curtains. 

Beverly  was  completely  carried  away  by 
the  sight  of  her  passionate  loveliness  — 
"  Once  your  marriage  bed  with  a  false  hus- 
band," he  said,  and  laid  his  hand  also  upon 
the  closed  curtains,  "  now  your  marriage  bed 
with  a  true  husband,  who  will  love  you  until 
death—" 

And  he  drew  aside  the  curtains. 

Drew  aside  the  curtains,  folding  Joanna 
passionately  to  his  breast,  and,  —  fell  back 
with  a  cry  of  horror.  Fell  back,  all  color 
gone  from  his  face,  his  features  distorted,  his 
paralyzed  hands  extended  above  his  head. 

Joanna  did  not  seem  to  share  his  terror 
for  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter. 


"  Our  marriage  bed,  love,"  she  said,  "  why- 
are  you  so  cold  ?"  and  again  she  laughed. 

But  Beverly  could  not  move  nor  speak. 
His  eyes  were  riveted  to  the  bed. 

Within  the  snowy  curtains,  was  stretched 
a  corpse,  attired  in  the  white  garment  of  the 
grave.  Through  the  parted  curtains,  the 
light  shone  fully  on  its  livid  face,  while  the 
body  was  enveloped  in  half  shadow, — shone 
fully  on  the  white  forehead  with  its  jet-black 
hair,  upon  the  closed  lids,  and  —  upon  the 
dark  wound  between  the  eyes.  The  agonj 
of  the  last  spasm  was  still  upon  that  face, 
although  the  hands  were  folded  tranquilly 
on  the  breast.  Eugene  Livingstone  was 
sleeping  upon  his  marriage  bed, — sleeping, 
undisturbed  by  dreams. 

Joanna  stood  there,  holding  the  curtain 
with  her  uplifted  hand,  her  eyes  bright,  her 
face  flushed  with  unnatural  excitement. 
Again  she  laughed  loud  and  long  —  the 
echoes  of  her  laughter  sounded  strangely  in 
that  marriage  chamber. 

"  What,  —  what  does  this  mean  ?"  cried 
Beverly,  at  last  finding  words  —  "is  this  a 

dream  a  "    He  certainly  w^is  in  a 

fearful  fright,  for  he  could  not  proceed. 

"  Why,  so  cold,  love  ?"  she  said,  smiling, 
"  it  is  our  marriage  bed,  you  know — " 

"  Joanna,  Joanna,"  he  cried, — "  are  you 
mad  ?"  and  in  his  fright,  he  looked  anx- 
iously toward  the  door. 

She  took  a  package  from  her  breast  and 
flung  it  at  his  feet. 

"  Go,"  she  cried,  "  but  first  take  up  yonr 
forged  letters — " 

"  Forged  letters  ?"  he  echoed. 

"  Forged  letters,"  she  answered,  —  her 
voice  was  changed, — her  manner  changed, — 
there  was  no  longer  any  passion  on  her  face, 
— pale  as  marble,  her  face  rigid  as  death,  she 
confronted  him  with  a  gaze  that  he  dared 
not  meet.  "  Go  !"  she  cried,  "  but  take  with 
you  your  forged  letters.  Yes,  the  letters 
which  you  forged,  and  which  you  used  as 
the  means  of  my  ruin.  You  have  robbed 
me  of  my  honor,  robbed  me  of  my  husband, 
— your  work  is  complete — go  !" 

Her  face  was  white  as  the  dress  which  she 
wore, — she  pointed  to  the  threshold. 

"Joanna,  Joanna,"  faltered  Beverly. 

"Not  a  word,  not  a  word,  villain,  villain 
without  remorse  or  shame!   I  am  guilty, 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


257 


and  might  excuse  myself  by  pleading  your 
treachery.  But  I  make  no  excuse.  But  for 
you, — for  you, — where  is  the  excuse  ?  You 
have  dishonored  the  wife, — made  the  child 
fatherless,  — your  work  is  complete  !    Go  ! " 

Beverly  saw  that  all  his  schemes  had  been 
unraveled  ;  conscious  of  his  guilt,  and  con- 
scious that  everything  was  at  an  end  between 
him  and  Joanna,  he  made  a  desperate  attempt 
to  rally  his  usual  self-possession  ;  or,  perhaps, 
impudence  would  be  the  better  word. 

He  moved  to  the  door,  and  placed  his 
hand  upon  the  lock. 

"  Well,  madam,  as  you  will,"  he  said,  and 
bowed.  "  Under  the  circumstances,  I  can 
only  wish  you  a  very  good  evening." 

He  opened  the  door. 

"  Hold  !  "  she  cried  in  a  voice  that  made 
him  start. — "  Your  work  is  complete,  but  so, 
also,  is  mine — " 

She  paused  ;  her  look  excited  in  him  a 
strange  curiosity  for  the  completion  of  the 
sentence.  "  You  will  not  long  enjoy  your 
triumph.  You  have  not  an  hour  to  live. 
The  wine  which  you  drank  was  poisoned." 

Beverly's  heart  died  in  him  at  these 
words.  A  strange  fever  in  his  veins,  a  stran- 
ge throbbing  at  the  temples,  which  he  had 
felt  for  an  hour  past,  and  which  he  had  at- 
tributed to  the  excitement  resulting  from  the 
events  of  the  day,  he  now  felt  again,  and 
with  redoubled  force. 

"No, — no, — it  is  not  so,"  he  faltered. — 
Woman,  you  are  mad, — you  had  not  the 
heart  to  do  it." 

"  Had  not  the  heart  ?"  again  she  burst  into 
a  loud  laugh, — "  0,  no,  I  was  but  jesting. 
Look  here," — she  darted  to  the  bed,  flung 
the  curtain  aside,  and  disclosed  the  lifeless 
form  of  her  husband, — "  and  here  !"  gliding 
to  another  part  of  the  room,  she  gently  drew 
a  cradle  into  light,  and  throwing  its  silken 
covering  aside,  disclosed  the  face  of  her 
sleeping  child, — that  cherub  boy,  who,  as  on 
the  night  previous,  slept  with  his  rosy  cheek 
on  his  bent  arm,  and  -the  ringlets  of  his  au- 
burn hair  tangled  about  his  forehead,  white 
as  alabaster.  "  And  now  look  upon  me  !  " 
she  dilated  before  him  like  a  beautiful  fiend  ; 
"  we  are  all  before  you, — the  dead  husband, 
the  dishonored  wife,  the  fatherless  child, — 
and  yet  I  had  not  the  heart," — she  laughed 
again. 


Beverly  heard  no  more.  Uttering  a  blas- 
phemous oath,  he  rushed  from  the  room. 

And  the  babe,  awakened  by  the  sound  of 
voices,  opened  its  clear,  innocent  eyes,  and 
reached  forth  its  baby  hands  toward  its 
mother.  t 

Urged  forward  by  an  impulse  like  mad- 
ness, Beverly  entered  the  rooms  on  the  first 
floor,  seized  the  rough  overcoat  and  threw  it 
on,  passing  the  red  neckerchief  around  its 
collar,  to  conceal  his  face.  Then  drawing 
the  cap  over  his  eyes,  he  hurried  from  the 
house. 

"  It's  all  nonsense,"  he  muttered,  and  de- 
scended the  steps. — I'll  walk  it  off." 

Walk  it  off !  And  yet  the  fever  burned 
the  more  fiercely,  his  temples  throbbed  more 
madly,  as  he  said  the  words.  Leaving  be- 
hind him  the  closed  mansion  of  Eugene  Liv- 
ingstone, with  the  crape  fluttering  on  the 
door,  he  bent  his  steps  toward  Broadway. 

"  I'm  nervous,"  he  muttered.  —  **  The 
words  of  that  dev'lish  hysterical  woman  have 
unsettled  me.  How  cold  it  is !"  He  felt 
cold  as  ice  for  a  moment,  and  the  next  in- 
stant his  veins  seemed  filled  with  molten  fire. 

He  hurried  along  the  dark  street  toward 
Broadway.  The  distant  lights  at  the  end 
of  the  street,  where  it  joined  Broadway, 
seemed  to  dance  and  whirl  as  he  gazed  upon 
them  ;  and  his  senses  began  to  be  bewildered. 

"I've  drank  too  much,"  he  muttered. — 
"  If  I  can  only  reach  Broadway,  and  get  to 
my  hotel,  all  will  be  right." 

But  when  he  reached  Broadway,  it  whirled 
before  him  like  a  great  sea  of  human  faces, 
carriages,  houses  and  flame,  all  madly  con- 
fused, and  rolling  through  and  over  each  other. 

The  crowd  gave  way  before  him,  as  he 
staggered  along. 

"  He's  drunk,"  cried  one. 

"  Pitch  into  me  that  way  ag'in,  old  feller, 
and  I'll  hit  you,"  cried  another. 

It  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  Broadway  was 
alive  with  light  and  motion ;  the  streets 
thronged  with  vehicles,  and  the  sidewalks 
almost  blocked  up  with  men,  and  women, 
and  children ;  the  lamps  lighted,  and  the 
shops  and  places  of  amusement  illuminated, 
as  if  to  welcome  some  great  conqueror.  But 
Beverly  was  unconscious  of  the  external 
scene.  His  fashionable  dress,  concealed  by 
his  rough  overcoat,  and  his  face  hidden  by 


258 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


his  cap  and  red  neckerchief,  he  staggered 
along,  with  his  head  down  and  his  hands 
swaying  from  side  to  side.  There  was  a 
roaring  as  of  waves  or  of  devouring  flame  in 
his  ears.  A  red  haze  was  before  his  eyes  ; 
and  the  scenes  of  his  whole  life  came  up  to 
him  at  once,  even  as  a  drowning  man  sees 
all  his  life,  in  a  focus,  before  the  last  strug- 
gle,— there  were  the  persons  he  had  known, 
the  adventures  he  had  experienced,  the 
events  of  his  boyhood,  and  the  triumphs  and 
shames  of  his  libertine  manhood, — all  these 
came  up  to  him,  and  confronted  him  as  he 
hurried  along.  Three  faces  were  always  be- 
fore him, — the  dead  face  of  Eugene,  the 
pale  visage  of  Joanna,  her  eyes  flaming  with 
vengeance,  and, — the  innocent  countenance 
of  his  motherless  daughter. 

And  thus  he  hurried  along. 

"  Old  fellow,  the  stars  '11  be  arter  you," 
cried  one  in  the  crowd,  through  which  he 
staggered  on. 

My  eyes  !  aint  he  drunk  ?" 
Don't  he  pay  as  much  attention  to  one 
side  o'  the  pavement  as  the  tother  ?" 

"Did  you  ever  see  sich  worm  fence  as 
he  lays  out  ?" 

There  was  something  grotesquely  horrible 
in  the  contrast  between  his  real  condition, 
and  the  view  which  the  crowd  took  of  it. 

At  length,  not  knowing  whither  he  went, 
he  turned  from  the  glare  and  noise  of  Broad- 
way into  a  by-street,  and  hurried  onward, — 
onward,  through  the  gloom,  until  he  fell. 

In  a  dark  corner  of  the  street,  behind  the 
Tombs,  close  to  the  stones  of  that  gloomy 
pile,  he  fell,  and  lay  there  all  night  long, 
with  no  hand  to  aid  him,  no  eye  to  pity  him. 

He  was  found,  on  Christmas  morning,  stiflf 
and  cold  ;  his  head  resting  against  the  wall 
of  the  Tombs,  his  body  covered  with  new- 
fallen  snow.  A  pile  of  bricks  lay  on  one 
side  of  him,  a  heap  of  boards  on  the  other. 
This  was  the  death-couch  of  the  dashing 
Beverly  Barron ! 

How  he  died,  no  one  could  tell  ;  it  was 
supposed  that  he  had  poisoned  himself  from 
remorse  at  the  death  of  Eugene  Livingstone. 

As  Beverly  hurried  from  the  room,  the 
babe  in  the  cradle  opened  its  clear,  innocent 
eyes,  and  reached  forth  its  baby  hands  to- 
ward its  mother. 


She  took  it,  and  stilled  it  to  rest  upon  her 
bosom  ;  and  then  came  to  the  bed  and  sat 
down  upon  it,  near  her  dead  husband. 

"  Eugene,  Eugene !"  she  gently  put  her 
hand  upon  his  cold  forehead,  —  "let  me 
talk  to  you, — I  will  not  wake  you, — let  me 
talk  to  you,  as  you  sleep.  I  am  guilty,  Eu- 
gene, you  know  I  am, — you  cannot  forgive 
me, — I  do  not  ask  forgiveness ;  but  you'll 
let  me  be  near  you,  Eugene  ?  You  will  not 
spurn  me  from  you  ?  This  is  our  child, 
Eugene, — don't  you  know  him  ? — 0,  look 
up  and  speak  to  him.  Don't,  —  don't  be 
angry  with  him, — his  mother  is  a  poor,  fallen 
fallen  thing,  but  don't  be  angry  with  our 
child !" 

She  did  not  weep.  Her  eyes,  large  and 
full  of  light,  were  fixed  upon  her  husband's 
face.  Cradling  her  babe  upon  her  bosom, 
she  sat  there  all  night  long,  talking  to  Eu- 
gene, in  a  low,  whispering  voice,  as  though 
she  wished  him  to  hear  her,  and  yet  was 
afraid  to  awake  him  from  a  pleasant  slum- 
ber. The  light  went  out,  but  still  she  did 
not  move.  She  was  there  at  morning  light, 
her  baby  sleeping  on  her  breast,  and  her  hand 
laid  upon  her  dead  husband's  forehead. 

And  at  early  morning  light,  her  father 
came, — the  gray-haired  man, — his  face  frown- 
ing, and  his  heart  full  of  wrath  against  his 
daughter. 

"  What  do  you  here  ?"  he  said,  sternly. 
"  This  is  no  place  for  you.  There  is  to  be  an 
inquest  soon.  You  surely  do  not  wish  to 
look  upon  the  ruin  you  have  wrought  ?" 

As  though  she  was  conscious  of  his  pres- 
ence, but  had  not  heard  his  words,  she  turned 
her  face  over  her  shoulder, — that  colorless 
face,  lighted  by  eyes  that  still  burned  with 
undimmed  luster, — and  said, — 

"  Do  you  know,  father.  I  have  been  talk- 
ing with  Eugene,  and  he  has  forgiven  me  r'* 

The  voice,  the  look  melted  the  old  man's 
heart. 

He  fell  upon  the  bed,  and  wept. 
CHAPTER  V. 

AN  EPISODE. 

Here,  my  friend,  let  us  take  a  breathing 
spell  in  this,  our  dark  history.  Horrors 
crowd  fast  and  thick  upon  us, — horrors,  not 
bom  of  romance,  but  of  that  under-current 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


259 


of  real  life,  which  rolls  on  evermore,  beneath 
the  glare  and  uproar  of  the  Empire  City. 
We  do  not  wish  to  write  them  down,  — 
shudder  sometimes  and  drop  the  pen  as  we 
describe  them,  —  and  ask  ourselves,  "  Can 
these  things  really  be  ?  Is  not  the  world  all 
song  and  sunshine  ?  Does  that  gilded  mask 
which  we  call  by  the  name  of  Civilization, — 
the  civilization  of  the  nineteenth  century, — 
only  hide  the  features  of  a  corpse  ?  "  And 
the  answer  to  these  queries  comes  to  us  in 
the  columns  of  every  daily  paper;  in  the 
record  of  every  day's  farces  and  crimes  ;  in 
the  unwritten  history  of  those  masses,  who, 
while  we  write,  are  slowly  serving  their  ap- 
prenticeship of  hardship  and  starvation,  in 
order  that  at  last  they  may  inherit  a — 
grave. 

Ah,  it  is  the  task  of  the  author  who  writes 
a  book,  traversing  a  field  so  vast  as  is  at- 
tempted in  the  present  work,  not  to  exagger- 
ate, but  to  soften,  the  perpetual  tragedies  of 
every  day.  He  dares  not  tell  all  the  truth  ; 
he  can  only  vaguely  hint  at  those  enormous 
evils  which  are  the  inevitable  result, — not 
of  totally  depraved  human  nature,  for  such 
a  thing  never  existed, — but  of  a  social  sys- 
tem, which,  false  alike  to  God  and  man,  does 
perpetually  tempt  one  portion  of  the  human 
race  with  immense  wealth,  as  it  tempts  an- 
other portion  with  immeasurable  poverty. 

But  let  us  leave  these  dark  scenes  for  a 
little  while.  Let  us  breathe  where  crime 
does  not  poison  the  air.  It  is  June,  and  the 
trees  are  in  full  leaf,  and  through  canopies 
of  green  leaves,  the  brooks  are  singing  their 
summer  song.  Come  out  with  me  into  the 
open  country,  where  every  fleeting  cloud 
that  turns  its  white  bosom  to  the  sun,  as  it 
skims  along  the  blue,  shall  remind  us,  not  of 
crime  and  blood,  but  of  thankfulness  to  God, 
that  summer  is  on  the  land,  and  that  we  are 
alive.  Come, — without  object,  save  to  drink 
at  some  wayside  spring,  —  without  hope, 
other  than  to  lose  ourselves  among  the  sum- 
mer boughs, — let  us  take  a  stroll  together.  | 

Out  in  the  country,  near  a  dusty  turnpike,  j 
and  a  straight,  hot  railroad  track, — but  we'll 
leave  the  turnpike,  which  is  well  scattered 
with  young  gentlemen  in  high  shirt-collars, 
who  drink  clouds  of  dust,  and  drive  hired 
Horses  to  death, — and  we'll  leave  the  rail- 
road where  the  steam  engine,  like  a  tired 


devil,  comes  blowing  and  swearing,  with  red 
coals  in  its  mouth,  and  a  cloud  of  brimstone 
smoke  about  its  head.  We'll  climb  the  rails 
of  yonder  gray  old  fence,  and  get  us  straight- 
way into  the  fields ;  not  much  have  we  to  show 
you  there.  A  narrow  path  winds  among 
tangled  bushes  and  clumps  of  dwarfed  cedar 
trees ;  it  shows  us,  here  a  grassy  nook,  hid- 
den in  shade,  and  there  a  rough  old  rock, 
projecting  its  bald  head  in  the  sun  ;  and  then 
it  goes  winding  down  and  down,  until  you 
hear  the  singing  of  the  brook.  V/here  that 
brook  comes  from,  you  cannot  tell ;  yonder 
it  is  hidden  under  a  world  of  leaves  ;  here 
it  sinks  from  view  under  a  bridge  curiously 
made  up  of  stone,  and  timber,  and  sod  ;  a 
little  to  your  right  it  comes  into  light,  dash- 
ing over  cool  rocks  and  forming  little  lakes 
all  over  beds  of  smooth  gray  sand.  Follow 
the  path  and  cross  the  bridge  ;  we  stand  in 
the  shade  of  trees,  that  are  scattered  at  irreg- 
ular intervals,  along  the  side  of  a  hill.  Here 
a  willow  near  the  brook,  with  rank  grass 
about  its  trunks  ;  there  a  poplar  with  a  trunk 
like  a  Grecian  column,  and  leaves  like  a  can- 
opy ;  and  farther  on,  a  mass  of  oaks,  ches- 
nuts,  and  maples,  grouped  together,  their 
boughs  mingling,  and  a  thicket  of  bushes 
and  vines  around  their  trunks.  So  you  see, 
we  stand  at  the  bottom  of  an  amphitheater, 
one  side  of  which  is  forest,  the  other  low 
brushwood  ;  beyond  the  brushwood,  a  distant 
glimpse  of  another  forest,  and  in  the  center 
of  the  scene,  the  hidden  brooklet  singing  its 
J une-day  song. 

You  look  above,  and  the  blue  sky  is  set  in 
an  irregular  frame  of  leaves, — leaves  now  sha- 
dowed by  a  cloud,  and  now  dancing  in  the  sun. 

Let  us  stretch  ourselves  upon  this  level  bit 
of  sod,  where  all  is  shade  and  quiet,  and  

Think  ?  No,  sir.  Do  not  think  that  there 
is  such  a  creature  as  a  bad  man,  or  a  crime 
in  the  world.  But  drink  the  summer  air, — 
drink  the  freshness  of  foliage  and- flowers, — 
lull  yourself  with  the  song  of  the  brook, — 
look  at  the  blue  sky,  and  feel  that  there  is  a 
God,  and  that  he  is  good. 

You  may  depend  you  will  feel  better  after 
it.  If  you  don't,  why,  it  is  clear  that  your 
mind  is  upon  bank  stock,  or  politics, — and 
there's  not  much  hope  of  you. 

Thus,  stretched  in  the  shade,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  this  leafy  amphitheater,  you'll  wrap 


260 


DAY,  SUNSET,  NIGHT. 


yourself  in  summer,  and  forget  the  world, 
Avhich,  beyond  that  wall  of  trees,  is  still  at 
its  old  work, — swearing,  lying,  fretting,  lov- 
ing, hating,  and  rushing  on  all  the  while  at 
steam-engine  speed. 

You  won't  care  who's  President,  or  who 
robbed  the  treasury  of  half  a  million  dollars. 
You'll  forget  that  there  is  a  Pope  who 
washed  his  hands  in  the  blood  of  brave 
men  and  heroic  women.  You'll  not  be  anx- 
ious about  the  rate  of  stock  ;  whether  money 
is  tight  or  easy,  shall  not  trouble  you  one  jot. 
Thus  resting  quietly  at  the  bottom  of  your 
amphitheater  in  the  country,  you'll  feel  that 
you  are  in  the  church  of  God,  which  has 
sky  for  roof,  leaves  for  walls,  grassy  sod  for 
floor,  and  for  music, — hark  !  Did  you  ever 
hear  organ  or  orchestra  that  could  match 
that  ?  The  hum  of  bees,  the  bubble  of 
brooks,  the  air  rustling  among  the  leaves,  all 
woven  together,  in  one  dreamy  hymn,  that 
melts  into  your  soul,  and  takes  you  up  to 
lieaven,  quick  as  a  sunbeam  flies  I 


And  when  the  sun  goes  behind  the  trees, 
and  the  dell  is  filled  with  broad  gleams  of 
golden  light  and  deep  masses  of  shade,  you 
may  watch  the  moon  as  she  steals  into  sight, 
right  over  your  head,  in  the  very  center  of 
the  glimpse  of  blue  sky.  You  may  hear 
the  low  murmur  which  tells  you  that  the 
day's  work  is  almost  done,  and  that  the  sol- 
emn night  has  come  to  wrap  you  in  her  still- 
ness. 

And  ere  you  leave  the  dell,  just  give  one 
moment  of  thought  to  those  you  love,  whose 
eyes  are  shut  by  the  grave-yard  sod, — think 
of  them,  not  as  dead,  but  as  living  and  beau- 
tiful among  those  stars, — and  then  taking  the 
path  over  the  brook,  turn  your  steps  to  the 
world  again. 

Hark  !  Here  it  comes  on  the  steam-en- 
gine's roar  and  whistle, — that  bustling,  hat- 
ing, fighting  world,  which,  like  the  steam- 
engine,  rushes  onward,  with  hot  coak  at  its 
heart,  and  a  brimstone  cloud  above  it. 


I E  ¥  YORK: 

ITS 

UPPER-TEN  AND  LOWER  MILLION. 


PART  SEVENTH. 


THE  DAY   OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 

DECEMBER  25,  1844. 


CHAPTER  1. 
MARTIN  FULMER  APPEARS. 

The  time  was  very  near.  The  cycle  of 
twenty-one  years  was  in  its  last  hour.  It 
was  the  last  hour  of  December  twenty-fourth, 
1844.  That  hour  passed,  the  twenty-one 
years  would  be  complete. 

Darkness  and  storm  were  upon  the  Empire 
City.  The  snow  fell  fast,  and  the  wind, 
howling  over  the  river  and  the  roofs,  made 
mournful  music  among  the  arches  of  unfin- 
ished Trinity  Church.  In  the  gloom,  amid 
the  tailing  snow,  four  persons  stood  around 
the  family  vault  of  the  Van  Huydens.  Even 
had  the  storm  and  darkness  failed  to  cover 
them  from  observation,  they  would  have 
been  defended  from  all  prying  eyes,  by  the 
crape  masks  which  they  wore.  The  marble 
slab  bearing  the  name  of  "  Van  Hutden," 
was  thrust  aside,  and  from  the  gloom  of  the 
vault  beneath,  the  coffin  v/as  slowly  raised 
into  view  ;  the  cofiin  which  was  inscribed 
with  the  name  of  Gulian  Van  Huyden,  and 
with  the  all-significant  dates,  December  25th, 
1823,  and  December  25th,  1844. 

Meanwhile,  even  as  the  blast  howls  along 
the  deserted  street,  let  us  enter  the  mansion 
of  Ezekiel  Bogart,  which,  as  you  are  aware, 
stands,  with  its  old  time  exterior,  alone  and 
desolate,  amid  the  huge  structures  devoted 
to  traffic. 

In  the  first  of  the  seven  vaults, — square  in 
form,  and  lined  with  shelves  from  the  ceil- 
ing to  the  floor, — Ezekiel  Bogart  sits  alone. 
The  hanging  lamp  difi"uses  its  mild  beams 
around  the  silent  place.  Ezekiel  is  seated 
in  the  arm-chair,  by  the  table,  his  form  en- 
veloped in  the  wrapper  or  robe  of  dark  cloth 
lined  with  scarlet.     The  dark  skull-cap 


covers  the  crown  of  his  head  ;  his  eyes  are 
hidden  by  huge  green  glasses,  and  the  large 
white  cravat  envelopes  his  throat  and  the 
lower  part  of  his  face.  Leaning  forward,  his 
elbow  on  the  table,  and  his  cheek  upon  his 
hand,  which,  veined  and  sinewy,  is  white 
as  the  hand  of  a  corpse,  Ezekiel  Bogart  is 
absorbed  in  thought. 

"  I  have  not  seen  Gaspar  Manuel  since  last 
night he  utters  his  thoughts  aloud.  "  This, 
indeed,  is  singular  1  The  hour  of  the  final 
settlement  is  near,  and  something  definite 
must  be  known  in  regard  to  the  lands  in 
California,  near  the  mission  of  San  Luis. 
What  can  have  prevented  him  from  seeing 
me  the  second  time  ?  Can  he  have  met 
with  an  accident  ?" 

He  rang  the  bell  which  lay  near  his  hand  ; 
presently,  in  answer  to  the  sound,  the  aged 
servant  appeared  ;  the  same  who  admitted 
Gaspar  Manuel  last  night,  and  whose  spare 
form  is  clad  in  gray  livery,  faced  with  black. 

"  Michael,  you  remember  the  foreign  gen- 
tleman, Gaspar  Manuel,  who  was  here  last 
night  ?" 

"  That  very  pale  man,  with  long  hair,  and 
such  dark  eyes  ?    Yes,  sir." 

"  You  are  sure  that  he  has  not  called  here 
to-day  ?" 

"Sure,  sir.  I  have  not  laid  eyes  upon 
him  since  last  night." 

"  It  is  strange  !"  continued  Ezekiel  Bo- 
gart,— "  You  have  attended  to  all  my  direc- 
tions, Michael  ?" 

"The  banquet- room  is  prepared  as  you 
ordered  it,  and  all  your  other  commands 
have  been  carefully  obeyed,"  answered  Mi- 
chael. 

"  This  will  be  a  busy  night  for  you,  Michael. 
From  this  hour  imtil  four  in  the  morning^ 

(261) 


262 


yes,  until  daybreak,  you  will  wait  in  the  re- 
ception room  below,  and  admit  into  the  house 
the  persons  whose  name^s  you  will  find  on 
this  card." 

Michael  advanced  and  took  the  card  from 
the  hand  of  his  master. 

"  These  persons, — these  only, — mark  me, 
Michael,"  continued  Ezekiel,  in  a  tone  of 
significant  emphasis.  "  And  as  they  arrive, 
show  them  up-stairs,  into  the  small  apart- 
ment, next  the  banquet-room.  Tell  each 
one,  as  he  arrives,  that  I  will  see  him  at  four 
o'clock." 

Michael  bowed,  and  said,  "Just  as  you 
direct,  I  will  do." 

"  One  of  the  persons,  however,  John  Hoff- 
man, otherwise  called  Ninety-One,  I  wish  to 
see  as  soon  as  he  arrives.  Bring  him  to  this 
room  at  once.  You  remember  him,  a  stout, 
muscular  man,  with  a  scarred  face  ?" 

"  I  do.  He  was  here  with  you  a  few  hours 
Bince." 

"  There  is  another  of  the  persons  named 
on  that  card,  whom  you  will  bring  to  this 
room  at  once  ;  Gaspar  Manuel,  who  was  here 
last  night.    Kemember,  Michael." 

Michael  bowed  in  token  of  assent,  and  was 
about  to  leave  the  room,  when  Ezekiel  called 
him  back, 

"About  midnight,  four  persons,  having 
charge  of  a  box,  will  come  to  the  door  and 
ask  for  me.  Take  charge  of  the  box,  Mi- 
chael, and  dismiss  them.  Have  the  box 
carried  up  into  the  banquet-room.  You  can 
now  retire,  Michael.  I  know  that  you  will 
attend  faithfully  to  all  that  I  have  given  you 
to  do.-' 

"  You  may  rely  upon  me,  sir,"  said  the 
tried  servant,  and  retired  from  the  room. 

And,  once  more  alone,  Ezekiel  rested  his 
cheek  on  his  hand,  and  again  surrendered 
himself  to  thought. 

"  The  child  of  Gulian  must  be  found  ;  ISTine- 
ty-One  cannot  fail.  If  he  is  not  found  before 
four  o'clock,  all  is  lost — all  is  lost !  Yes,  if 
that  child  does  not  appear,  this  estate, — awful 
to  contemplate  in  its  enormous  wealth, — will 
pass  from  his  grasp,  and  the  labor  of  twenty- 
one  yeajrs  will  have  been  spent  for  nothing. 
The  estate  will  pass  into  the  hands  of  the 
seven,  not  one  of  whom  will  use  his  share 
for  anything  but  the  gratification  of  his  appe- 
cites  or  the  oppression  of  his  kind." 


The  old  man  rose,  the  light  shone  over  his 
tall  figure,  bent  by  age,  as,  placing  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  he  paced  to  and  fro  along 
the  floor.  He  was  deeply  troubled.  An 
anxiety,  heavier  than  death,  weighed  down 
his  soul. 

"  The  seven, — look  at  them  !  Dermoyne 
is  a  poor  shoemaker.  This  wealth  will  in- 
toxicate and  corrupt  him.  Barnhurst,  a  cler- 
ical voluptuary, — he  will  use  his  share  to 
gratify  his  monomania.  Yorke,  a  swindler, 
who  grows  rich  ■.upon  fraud, — his  share  will 
enable  him  to  plunge  hundreds  of  the  weal- 
thiest into  utter  ruin,  and  convulse,  to  its 
center,  the  whole  world  of  commerce  and  of 
industry.  Barron, — a  fashionable  sensual- 
ist,— he  will  surround  himself  with  a  harem. 
Godlike,  a  Borgia, — an  intellectual  demon, — 
his  share  will  create  a  world  of  crimes. 
Harry  Eoyalton,  a  sensualist,  though  of  a 
different  stamp  from  the  others,  will  expend 
his  in  the  wine-cup  and  at  the  gambling- 
table.  There  are  six  of  the  seven. — truly  a 
worthy  company  to  share  the  largest  private 
estate  in  the  world  !  As  for  the  seventh,  he 
has  gone  to  his  account. 

Thus  meditating,  Ezekiel  Bogart,  slowly 
paced  the  floor.  He  paused  suddenly,  for  a 
thought  full  of  consequences,  the  most  vital, 
flashed  over  his  soul. 

"  What  if  Martin  Fulmer  should  refuse 
to  divide  the  estate  ?  Alas  !  alas !  his  oath," — 
he  pressed  his  hand  against  his  forehead, — 
"  his  oath  made  to  Gulian  Yan  Huyden,  in 
his  last  hour,  will  crush  the  very  thought  of 
such  a  refusal.  The  Will  must  be  obeyed  ; 
yes,  strictly,  faithfully,  to  the  letter,  in  its 
most  minute  details." 

Once  more  resuming  his  walk,  he  con- 
tinued,— 

"  But  the  child  will  be  discovered, — the 
child  will  be  here  at  the  appointed  hour." 

He  spoke  these  words  in  a  tone  of  pro- 
found conviction. 

"  I  trust  in  Providence  ;  and  Providence 
will  not  permit  this  immense  wealth  to  pass 
into  the  hands  of  those  who  will  abuse  it, 
and  make  of  it  the  colossal  engine  of  human 
misery." 

After  a  moment  of  silent  thought,  he  con-- 
tinned, — 

«  No, — no, — this  wealth  cannot  pass  into 
the  hands  of  the  seven  !   When  Gulian,  in 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


263 


his  hist  hour,  intrusted  it  to  Martin  Fulmcr, 
bequeathing  it,  after  the  hipse  of  twenty-one 
years,  to  seven  persons,  in  different  parts  of 
the  union,  he  doubtless  thought  that  chance, 
to  say  nothing  of  Providence,  wouhl  find 
among  the  number  at  least  four  with  good 
hearts  and  large  mental  vision.  He  did  not 
think, — he  did  not  dream,  that  at  least  five 
out  of  the  seven  would  prove  totally  un- 
worthy of  his  hopes,  altogether  unfit  to  pos- 
sess and  wield  such  an  incredible  wealth. 
And,  believing  in  Providence,  I  cannot 
think,  for  a  moment,  that  He  will  permit 
this  engine  of  such  awful  power  to  pass  into 
hands  that  M-ill  use  it  to  the  ruin  and  the 
degradation  of  the  human  race.  The  child 
will  appear,  and  God  will  bless  that  child." 

A  sound  pealed  clear  and  distinct  through- 
out the  mansion.  It  was  the  old  clock  in 
the  hall,  striking  the  hour.  Ezekiel  stood 
as  if  spell-bound,  while  the  sounds  rolled  in 
sad  echoes  through  the  mansion. 

It  struck  the  hour  of  twelve.  The  cycle 
of  twenty-one  years  was  complete. 

The  old  man  sank  on  his  knees,  and  bury- 
ing his  face  in  his  hands,  sent  up  his  soul,  in 
a  voiceless  Tj>rayer. 

*'  Come  what  will,  this  matter  must  be  left 
to  the  hands  of  Providence,"  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  as  he  rose.  "If  the  child  does 
not  appear  at  four  o'clock,  Martin  Fulmer 
has  no  other  course,  than  to  divide  this  un- 
told wealth  among  such  of  the  seven  as  are 
present.  Before  morning  light  his  trust  ex- 
pires. But, — but, — "  and  he  pressed  his 
clenched  hands  nervously  together, — the 
child  ivill  appear." 

Taking  up  a  silver  candlestick,  he  lighted 
the  wa>:  candle  which  it  held,  and  went,  in 
silence,  through  the  seven  vaults,  (described 
in  a  previous  chapter)  which  contained  the 
title-deeds,  a  portion  of  the  specie,  and  the 
secret  police  records  of  the  Van  Huyden 
estate. 

As  he  passed  from  silent  va-ilt  to  silent 
vault,  not  a  word  escaped  his  lips. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  incredible  wealth, 
whose  evidences  were  all  around  him, — of 
the  awful  power  which  that  wealth  would 
confer  upon  its  possessors, — of  Nameless,  or 
Carl  Eaphael,  the  son  of  Gulian  Van  Huy- 
den,— of  the  appointed  hour,  now  close  at 
Dand 

17 


"  What  if  Martin  Fulmer  should  bum 
every  title-deed  and  record  here," — he  held 
the  light  above  his  head,  as  he  surveyed  the 
vault,  —  "thus  leaving  the  estate  in  the 
hands  of  the  ten  thousand  tenants  who  now 
occupy  its  houses  and  lands  ?  These  parch- 
ments once  destroyed,  every  tenant  would  be 
the  virtual  owner  of  the  house  or  lot  of 
land  which  he  now  occupies.  This  would 
create,  in  fact,  ten  thousand  proprietors, — 
perhaps  twenty  thousand, — instead  of  seven 
heirs." 

It  was  a  great  thought, — a  thought  which, 
carried  into  action,  would  have  baptized  ten 
thousand  hearts  with  peace,  and  filled  thrice 
ten  thousand  hearts  with  joy  unspeakable. 
But  

"  It  cannot  be.  Martin  Fulmer  must  keep 
his  oath.    The  rest  is  for  Providence." 

He  returned  to  the  first  room,  or  vault, 
and  from  a  drawer  of  the  table,  drew  forth 
a  bundle  of  keys. 

"  I  will  visit  tliose  rooms,''  he  said,  "  and 
in  the  meantime  Ninety-One  will  arrive  with 
Carl  Raphael." 

Light  in  hand,  he  left  the  room,  and  passed 
along  a  lofty  corridor  with  panneled  walls. 
As  the  light  shone  over  Ms  tall  figure,  bent 
with  age,  and  enveloped  in  a  dark  robe  lined 
with  scarlet,  yoU  might  have  thought  him 
the  magician  of  some  old  time  story,  on  his 
way  to  the  cell  of  his  most  sacred  vigils,  had 
it  not  been  for  his  skull-cap,  huge  green 
glasses,  and  enormous  white  cravat;  these 
imparted  something  grotesque  to  his  appear- 
ance, and  effectually  concealed  his  features, 
and  the  varying  expressions  of  his  coun- 
tenance. 

He  placed  a  key  in  the  lock  of  a  door.  It 
was  the  door  of  a  chamber  which  no  living 
being  had  entered  for  twenty-one  years. 
Ezekiel  seemed  to  hesitate  ere  he  crossed 
the  threshold.  At  length,  turning  the  key 
in  the  lock, — it  grated  harshly, — he  pushed 
open  the  door, — he  crossed  the  threshold. 

A  sad  and  desolate  place  !  Once  elegant, 
luxurious  ;  the  very  abode  of  voluptuous 
wealth,  it  was  now  sadder  than  a  tomb. 
The  atmosphere  was  heavy  with  the  breath 
of  years.  The  candle  burned  but  dimly  as 
it  encountered  that  atmosphere,  which,  for 
twenty-one  years,  had  not  known  a  single 
ray  of  sunlight,  a  single  breath  of  air. 


264 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


A  grand  old  place  with  lofty  walls,  concealed 
by  tapestry, — three  windows  looking  to  the 
street  (they  had  not  been  opened  for  twenty- 
one  years)  adorned  with  curtains  of  em- 
broidered lace,  a  bureau  surmounted  by  an 
oval  mirror,  chairs  of  dark  mahogany,  a 
carpet  soft  as  down,  and  a  couch  enshrined 
in  an  alcove,  with  silken  curtains  and  cover- 
let and  pillow,  yet  bearing  the  impress  of  a 
human  form.  A  grand  old  place,  but  there 
was  dust  everywhere  ;  everywhere  dust,  the 
breath  of  years,  the  wear  and  tear  of  time. 
You  could  not  see  your  face  in  the  mirror ; 
the  cobwebs  covered  it  like  a  vail.  You 
left  the  print  of  your  footsteps  upon  the 
downy  carpet.  The  purple  tapestry,  was 
purple  no  longer ;  it  was  black  with  dust, 
and  the  moth  had  eaten  it  into  rags.  The 
once  snow-white  curtains  of  the  windows, 
were  changed  to  dingy  gray,  and  the  canopy 
of  the  couch,  looked  anything  but  pure  and 
spotless,  as  the  light  fell  over  its  folds. 

Did  Ezekiel  Bogart  hesitate  and  tremble 
as  he  approached  that  couch  ? 

He  held  the  light  above  his  head, — and 
looked  within  the  couch.  Silken  coverlet 
and  downy  pillow,  covered  with  dust,  and 
bearing  still  the  impress  of.  the  form  which 
had  died  there  twenty-one  years  ago. 

"Alice  Van  Huyden  I"  ejaculated  Ezekiel 
Bogart,  as  though  the  dead  one  was  present, 
listening  to  his  every  word, — "  Here,  twenty- 
one  yeai-s  ago,  you  gave  birth  to  your  son, 
and, — died.  Yes,  here  you  gave  life  to 
that  son, — Carl  Raphael  Van  Huyden  I  must 
call  him, — who,  once  condemned  to  death, — 
then  buried  beside  you  in  the  family  vault, — 
then  for  two  years  the  tenant  of  a  mad-house, 
will  at  four  o'clock,  appear  and  take  posses- 
sion of  his  own  name,  and  of  the  estate  of 
his  father !" 

Turning  from  the  bed,  Ezekiel  approached 
the  bureau.  The  mirror  was  thick  with 
dust,  and  in  front  of  it  stood  an  alabaster 
candlestick — the  image  of  a  dancing  nymph, 
— now  alas !  looking  more  like  ebony  than 
alabaster.  It  held  a  half-burned  waxen 
candle. 

"  That  candle,  when  lighted  last,  shone 
over  the  death  agonies  of  Alice  Van  Huy- 
den." 

Up  and  down  that  place,  whose  very  air 
breathed  heart-rending  memories,  the  old 


man  walked,  his  head  sinking  low  and  lower 
on  his  breast  at  every  step. 

He  paused  at  length  before  a  portrait, 
covered  with  dust.  Standing  on  a  chair, 
Ezekiel  witli  the  purple  tapestry,  brushed 
the  dust  away  from  the  canvas  and  tho 
walnut  frame.  The  portrait  came  out  into 
light,  so  fro-^h,  so  vivid,  so  life-like,  that 
Ezekiel  stepped  hastily  from  the  chair  as 
though  the  apparition  of  one  long  dead,  had 
suddenly  confronted  him. 

It  was  a  portrait  of  a  manly  face,  shaded 
by  masses  of  brown  hair.  There  was  all  th« 
hope  of  young  manhood,  in  the  dark  eyes, 
on  the  cheeks  rounded  with  health,  and  upon 
the  warm  lips  full  of  life  and  love.  A 
fresh  countenance;  one  that  you  would 
have  taken  at  sight  for  the  countenance  of  a 
man  of  tme  nobility  of  heart  and  soul.  It 
was  the  portrait  of  Gulian  Van  Huyden  at 
twenty-one. 

For  a  long  time  Ezekiel  Bogart  lingered 
silently  in  front  of  the  portrait. 

At  last  he  left  the  chamber,  locked  the 
door, — first  pausing  to  look  over  his  shoulder 
toward  the  bed  upon  which  Alice  Van  Huy- 
den died, — and  then  slowly  ascended  to  the 
upper  rooms  of  the  old  mansion. 

*       *        *        *        *  * 

He  came  into  a  small  chamber  panneled 
with  oak  :  an  oaken  pillar,  crowned  with 
carved  flowens,  and  satyr  faces  in  ever)--  cor- 
ner ;  and  a  death's  head  grinning  from  the 
center  of  the  oaken  ceiling.  Once  the  floor, 
the  walls,  the  ceiling  and  the  pillars,  had 
shone  like  polished  steel,  but  now  they 
were  black  with  dust. 

Holding  the  light  above  his  skull-cap, 
Ezekiel  silently  surveyed  the  scene. 

Two  tressels  stood  in  the  center  of  the 
floor.  These  were  the  only  objects  to 
break  the  monotony  of  the  dust-covcred 
floor  and  walls. 

Upon  these  tressels,  twenty-one  years 
before,  had  been  placed  a  cofiin,  inscribed 
with  the  name  of  Gulian  Van  Huyden,  and 
the  dates,— December  25th,  1823,  and  De- 
cember, 25th,  184-1. 

Opposite  these  tressels,  a  panel  had  re- 
cently been  removed,  disclosing  a  cavity  or 
recess  in  the  wall.    In  the  recess  the  Iron 
chest  had  been  buried  twenty-one  years  before. 
1  It  was  vacant  now, — the  iron  chest  was  gone. 


THE  DAY.  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEAHS. 


265 


As  the  light  shone  around  this  place,  j 
whose  every  detail  was  linked  with  the  I 
past,  the  breast  of  Ezekiel  Bogart  heaved 
with  emotion,  but  no  word  passed  his  lips, 
lie  lingered  there  a  long  time. 

Through  the  confined  doorway,  he  passed 
into  the  garret  nook,  whose  roof  was  formed 
by  the  slope  of  the  heavy  rafters,  which  now 
were  hung  with  cobwebs,  while  a  small  win- 
dow, with  heavy  frame  and  narrow  panes, 
shook  to  the  impulse  of  the  winter  wind.  A 
mahogany  desk  and  an  old-fushioned  arm- 
chair, stand  between  the  door  and  the  win- 
dow, 

"Here  Gulian  and  Martin  Fulmer  held 
their  last  interview,"  soliloquized  Ezekiel,  as 
he  stood  alone  in  the  dreary  garret,-^"  there 
stood  Gulian,  there  knelt  Martin,  as  he  took 
the  oath.  Fifteen  minutes  afterward,  Gu- 
lian was  a  corpse,  and  Martin  was  loaded 
with  the  awful  trust,  which  he  has  borne 
alone  for  twenty-one  years." 

He  approached  the  window.  All  was 
dark  without.  Sleet  and  snow  beat  against 
the  window-pane.  The  wind  howled  dis- 
mally over  the  roof;  the  storm  was  abroad 
over  the  city  and  the  bay. 

"From  this  window  he  saw  Manhattan 
Bay,  and  the  spire  of  old  Trinity^  Yes, 
from  this  window,  he  pointed  out  to  Martin 
Fulmer,  the  Avindows  of  the  Banquet-room, 
in  the  western  wing  of  the  mansion,  as  they 
shone  wdth  the  glad  light  of  the  Christmas 
Festival.  It  is  Christmas  again, — once  more 
the  windows  of  the  banquet- room  are 
lighted, — yes,  I  can  see  the  lights  glimmer- 
ing through  the  storm, — but  not  for  a  festival. 
Ah  me  !  what  years  have  passed  since  those 
windows  were  lighted  for  a  festival. 

Sadly  Ezekiel  Bogart  left  the  garret,  and 
descending  the  narrow  stair-case,  and  passing 
a  corridor,  made  the  best  of  his  way  toward 
the  lower  rooms  of  the  mansion.  Impressed 
to  his  very  soul,  with  the  consciousness  that 
he  would  soon  behold  the  son  of  Gulian  Van 
Huyden — Carl  Raphael — he  entered  the  first 
of  the  seven  vaults,  where  the  hanging  lamp 
still  shone  upon  the  arm-chair,  the  shelved 
walls,  and  the  huge  table  overspread  with 
papers. 

Seating  himself  in  the  arm-chair,  he  rang 
the  bell.  It  was  not  long  before  the  aged 
servant  appeared. 


[     "  Has  John  Hoffman,  otherwise  called 
I  Ninety-One,  arrived  ?" 
"  No,  Sir." 

"  This,  indeed,  is  strange,  very  strange  !" 
ejaculated  Ezekiel,  much  agitated,  "and 
Gaspar  Manuel — has  he  been  here  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  answered  Michael,  "  the  four 
persons  Avith  the  box  have  been  here,  and 
that  is  all.  I  had  the  box  carried  into  the 
banquet- room." 

At  a  sign  from  Ezekiel,  the  aged  servant 
retired. 

"  Altogether  strange  !  The  seven  were 
notified  by  letter,  and  by  a  carefully  worded' 
advertisement  in  the  daily  papers,  of  the 
jilace  and  Jwur  of  meeting.  And  not  one 
arrived  !   What  if  they  should  not  appear  ?" 

The  sound  of  the  old  clock  disturbed  his 
meditations.  One, — two, — three  !  He  had 
passed  three  hours  in  wandering  through 
the.  old  mansion.  Only  a  single  hour  re- 
mained. 

"  Three  hours  gone  ! "  Ezekiel  started 
from  his  chair,  "no  word  of  Ninety-One, 
Gaspar  Manuel,  or  the  seven  !  It  may  be," 
and  he  felt  a  strange  hope  kindling  in  his 
heart,  "  that  the  night  will  pass  and  not  one 
of  the  seven  appear  !" 

The  words  had  not  passed  his  lips,  when 
a  heavy  footstep  was  heard  in  the  corridor, 
and  the  door  was  flung  open.  A  stout  mus- 
cular form  came  rapidly  to  the  light.  It 
was  Ninety-One.  His  garments  were  covered 
with  snow,  and  there  were  stains  of  blood 
upon  his  scarred  face.  From  beneath  his 
shaggy  eyebrows,  knit  in  a  settled  frown, 
his  eyes  shone  with  a  ferocious  glare. 
"  What  news  ?"  ejaculated  Ezekiel. 
Ninety-One  struck  his  clenched  hand  upon 
the  table,  and  gave  utterance  to  a  blasphe- 
mous oath. 

"  News  ?  Hell's  full  of  sich  news  !  Only 
to  think  of  it !  It's  enough  to  set  a  man  to 
wishin'  himself  safe  in  jail  again.  'Don't 
give  it  up  so  easy  !'  That's  what  I've  said 
all  along.  An'  I  have  mt  give  it  up  easy, 
nayther.    And  now  what's  it  come  to  ?" 

"  The  Boy. — the  son  of  Gulian  Van  Huy- 
den," cried  Ezekiel,  resting  his  hands  upon 
the  table. 

Ninety-One  sank  into  a  chair  and  wiped 
the  blood  from  his  face. 

"  You  know  I  tracked  the  boy  all  day, 


266 


THE  DAT  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


until  I  found  his  quarters  in  the  four  story 
buildin",  whixr  there  wjvs  a  dead  man  ? — " 

"  Yes, — yes, — and  you  came  and  told  me 
that  you  hail  foun-l  his  home.  The  people 
in  the  room  adjoining  the  one  which  he 
occupies,  informed  you  that  he  had  gone 
out  -with  the  young  girl,  but  that  he  would 
shortly  return.  You  came  and  told  me,  and 
then  went  back  to  his  room  to  await  his 
return,  taking  with  you  a  letter  from  me — " 

"I  went  back,  and  waited,  and  waited, 
havin'  no  company  but  the  dead  man,  until 
dark.  Then  I  sallied  out,  and  went  to  the 
liouse,  where  we  all  was  last  night.  I'd  a 
hard  time  to  get  in,  but  git  in  I  did, — and 
jist  too  late — " 

"  Too  late  ?— " 

"  The  boy  and  the  gal  had  been  thar,  and 
they'd  jist  gone.  One  of  the  folks  in  livery 
show'd  me  which  way, — 'down  the  street 
toward  the  river,  and  only  five  minutes  ago,' 
says  he.  Down  the  street  I  put,  and  by  this 
time  the  snow  was  fallin'  and  the  wind 
bio  win'  a  harrycane.  Down  the  street  I  put, 
and  when  I  came  near  the  river,  I  heer'd  a 
woman  cry  out,  *  help  !  murder  !'  Mind,  I 
tell  you,  I  lost  no  time,  but  made  straight 
for  the  pier,  an'  thar  I  find  the  gal,  Avringin' 
her  hands  an'  p'intin'  to  the  river — " 

"And  the  boy — the  son  of  Gulian  ? — " 

"Four  fellers  had  come  behind  him, as  he 
was  about  turnin'  into  the  street  in  which  he 
lived, — they  had  dragged  him  from  her, — 
she  foUered  them  on  to  the  pier,  cryin', 
*  help  !  murder  !'  and  they'd  tied  him,  and 
put  him  into  a  boat  and  made  out  into  the 
river.  As  she  told  me  this  story,  I  looked 
about  me  for  a  boat, — thar  wasn't  a  boat  to 
be  seen, — so  I  detarmined  to  jump  in  and 
swim  arter  'em  anyhow,  though  the  river 
was  full  of  ice  and  the  wind  a-blowin'  like 
Lucifer — " 

"  You  leaped  into  the  river  ?" 

"No,  I  did  not.  For  as  the  gal  stood 
cryin',  an'  moanin',  an'  p'intin',  out  into  the 
dark  thick  night,  the  boat  came  back,  and 
the  four  gallus  birds  jumped  on  the  wharf — " 

"  And  the  child, — 0,  my  God  !  the  son 
of  Gulian  ?— " 

"  They'd  hove  him  overboard  !" 

The  old  man  uttered  a  heart-rending 
groan,  and  raised  his  hands  to  heaven. 

"  Fatality  !"  he  cried. 


"  I  made  at  'em  at  once, — and  we  j'ined 
in,  four  to  one,  teeth  an'  toe  nails.  *  Don't 
give  it  up  so  easy  !'  I  said,  but  what's  the 
use  o'  tulkin'  '?  I  broke  a  jaw  for  one  of 
'em  an'  caved  tlie  crust  in  for  another ;  but  I 
wa'n't  a  match  for  slung-shot  behind  the 
ear.  They  knocked  me  stoopid.  An'  when 
I  opened  my  eyes  again,  I  found  myself  in 
their  hands,  arrested  on  the  charge  o'  havin' 
murdered  young  Soraers,  an'  o'  robbin'  Isr'el 
Yorke.  They  tied  me,  took  me  to  a  room 
up  town,  whar  they  war  j'ined  by  Blossom, 
— they  tried  to  gouge  money  out  o'  me,  but 
as  I  hadn't  any,  it  wa'n'tf  so  easy.  When 
they  got  tired  o'  that,  I  purtended  to  sleep, 
an'  overheer'd  their  talk.  The  hansuni 
Colonel,  Tarleton,  my  pertikler  friend,  had 
hired  the  four  to  waylay  the  ho>/,  and  carry 
him  out  into  the  river.  Bloseom  didn't 
know  anythin'  about  it ;  he  SAVore  like  a  fiery 
furnace  when  they  told  him  of  it»  Arter  a 
while,  as  I  found  they  Avere  goin'  to  take  me 
to  the  Tombs  if  they  couldn't  git  any  money 
out  o'  me,  I  broke  for  the  door,  and  came 
away  in  a  hurr}-,  an'  here  I  am." 

"And  the  child  of  Gulian  is  gone  1  Fata- 
lity !     Fatality  !"  groaned  Ezekiel  Bogart. 

"  In  the  river, — tied  and  gagged,  —  in  the 
river,"  sullenly  replied  Ninety-One  ;  and  the 
next  moment  he  uttered  a  wild  cry  and 
leaped  to  his  feet. 

Ezekiel  Bogart  had  removed  the  skull- 
cap, the  green  glasses  and  the  huge  cravat. 
In  place  of  a  countenance  oi»scured  by  a 
grotesque  disguise,  appeared  a  noble  face,  a 
broad  forehead,  rendered  venerable  by  masses 
of  snow-Avhite  hair.  His  beard,  also  Avhite 
as  snow,  left  bare  the  outlines  of  his  massive 
chin  and  descended  upon  his  breast.  And 
sunken  deep  beneath  his  Avhite  eyebroAvs, 
his  large  eyes  shone  Avith  the  light  of  a  great 
intellect,  a  generous  heart.  It  Avas  indeed  a 
noble  head.  True,  his  mouth  was  large,  and 
the  lips  severely  set,  his  large  nose  bent  to 
one  side,  his  cheek-bones  high  and  promi- 
nent, but  the  calm  steady  light  of  his  eyes, 
the  bold  outlines  of  his  forehead, — stamped 
Avith  thought,  Avith  genius, — gave  character 
to  his  entire  face,  and  made  its  very  devia- 
tions from  regularity  Of  feature,  all  the  more 
impressive  and  commanding. 

"  It  is  the  Doctor !"  cried  Ninoty-One. 
"  Yer  ha'r  is  Avhite  and  thar's  wrinklea  about 


2G7 


yer  mouth  an'  eyes,  but  I  know  you,  Doctor 
Martin  Fahner." 

CMAPTER  II. 

THE  SEVEN"  ARE  SUMMONED. 

It  was,  in  truth,  that  singular  man,  who 
in  the  course  of  our  narrative,  has  appeared 
us  the  Judge  of  the  Court  of  Ten  Millions 
as  the  "man  in  the  ^urtout,  with  manifold 
capes,"  as  Ezekiel  Bogart,  the  General  Agent; 
and  who,  at  length,  appears  in  his  own  char- 
acter,— Dr.  Martin  Fulmer,  the  trustee  of  the 
Van  Huyden  estate. 

"  Be  silent,  John," — the  Doctor  rose  and 
gently  waved  his  hand, — his  bent  form  for 
a  moment  became  straight  and  erect, — his 
attitude  was  noble  and  impressive.  "The 
child  whom,  twenty-one  years  ago,  Gulian 
Van  Huyden  intrusted  to  your  care,  has,  this 
night,  —  even  as  the  misfortunes  of  long 
years  were  about  to  be  succeeded  by  peace, 
security,  the  jx)ssession  of  unbounded  wealth, 
— met  his  death  at  the  instigation  of  Gulian's 
brother.  Be  silent,  John,  for  the  shadow  of 
almighty  fate  is  passing  over  us  !  It  was 
to  be,  and  it  was !  Who  shall  resist  the  de- 
crees of  Providence  ?  Behold  !  the  fabric 
which  I  have  spent  twenty-one  years  to 
build,  is  dust  and  ruins  at  my  feet !" 

There  was  the  dignity  of  despair  in  his 
tone,  his'  look,  his  every  attitude. 

He  slowly  moved  toward  the  door. — "  Re- 
main here,  John,  until  morning.  I  may 
want  the  aid  of  your  arm.  The  worst  has 
fallen  upon  me,"  he  continued,  as  though 
speaking  to  himself,  "  and  nothing  now  re- 
mains but  to  fulfill  the  last  conditions  of  my 
trust,  and — to  die." 

He  left  the  room,  and  in  the  darkness,  along 
corridor,  and  up  stairway,  pursued  his  w^ay 
slowly  to  the  banquet-room. 

"  To  this  estate  I  have  offered  up  twenty- 
one  years  of  my  life, — of  my  soul.  For  it  I 
have  denied  myself  the  companionship  of  a 
wife,  the  joy  of  hearing  a  child  call  me  by 
the  name  of  '  father !'  I  have  traversed  the 
globe  in  its  behalf ;  made  myself  a  dweller 
in  all  lands  ;  have  left  the  beautiful  domain 
of  that  science  which  loses  itself  among  the 
stars,  to  make  myself  a  student  in  the  sci- 
ence of  human  misery,  in  the  dark  philoso- 
phy of  human  despair.  I  have  made  myself 


the  very  slave  of  this  estate.  Believing  that 
one  day,  ir^  enormous  wealth  would  be  de- 
voted to  the  anielioration  of  social  misery,  I 
have  made  myself  familiar  with  the  entire 
anatomy  of  the  social  world  ;  have  dwelt  in 
the  very  heart  of  its  most  loathsome  evils  ; 
have  probed  to  the  quick  the  ulcer  of  its 
moral  leprosy.  But  at  all  times,  and  in 
every  phase  of  my  career,  I  did  hope,  that 
out  of  this  son  of  Gulian's,  cast  like  a  waif 
upon  the  voyage  of  life,  and  made  the  sub- 
ject of  superhuman  misfortune,  Providence 
would  at  length  mould  a  good,  strong  man, 
with  heart  and  intellect,  to  wield  the  Van 
Huyden  estate,  for  the  social  regeneration  of 
his  race.    My  hope  is  ashes." 

With  words  like  these  in  his  soul,  only 
half-uttered  on  his  tongue,  he  opened  a  door 
and  passed  into  the  banquet-room. 

It  was  brilliantly  lighted  by  an  antique 
chandelier  which  hung  from  the  lofty  ceiling. 
It  was  arranged  for  the  last  scene. 

In  this  banquet-room,  twenty-one  years 
ago,  there  was  the  sound  of  merry  voices, 
mingled  with  the  clink  of  wine-glasses ; 
there  were  hearts  mad  with  joy,  and  faces 
dressed  in  smiles ;  and  there  was  one  face 
dressed  in  smiles,  which  masked  a  heart  de- 
voured by  the  tortures  of  the  damned. 

Now  the  scene  was  changed.  The  doors, 
windows,  the  pictures  of  the  Van  Huyden 
family  which  lined  the  lofty  walls,  were  con- 
cealed by  hangings  of  bright  scarlet.  A  round 
table,  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  and  sur- 
rounded by  eight  antique  arm-chairs,  alone 
broke  the  monotony  of  that  vast  and  brilliantly 
lighted  banquet-hall.  The  chandelier  which 
shone  upon  the  hangings,  and  lighted  up 
every  parti^  of  the  room,  shone  down  upon 
the  white  cloth  of  the  table,  and  upon  a 
single  object  which  varied  its  surface, — a 
small  portfolio,  bound  in  black  leather. 

In  that  portfolio  were  comprised  the  mys- 
teries of  the  Van  Huyden  estate. 

Beneath  the  table,  and  shaded  by  it 
from  the  light,  dimly  appeared  an  iron  chest, 
and  a  coffin  covered  with  black  cloth, — both 
were  half-concealed  beneath  a  pall  of  velvet, 
fringed  with  tainished  gold. 

Martin  Fulmer  attentively  surveyed  this 
scene,  and  a  sudden  thought  seemed  to  strike 
him.  "It  will  not  do,"  he  said,  "let  the  old 
plac^f  in  this  hour,  put  on  all  its  memories." 


2G8 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


He  rang  the  bell,  and  four  servants,  attired 
in  gray  liveries,  appeared  from  beneath  the 
hangings.  Martin  whispered  his  commands 
in  a  low  voice,  and  they  obeyed  \vithout  a 
word.  Moving  to  and  fro,  without  uproar, 
in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  they  had 
completely  changed  the  appearance  of  the 
hall.  Thus  changed,  the  banquet-room  has, 
indeed,  put  on  its  old  memories  ;  it  wears 
the  look,  it  breathes  the  air  of  the  past. 

The  light  of  the  chandelier,  no  longer 
dazzling,  falls  in  subdued  radiance  around 
a  lofty  hall,  whose  ceiling  is  supported  by 
eight  pillars  of  cedar,  grotesquely  carved 
from  base  to  capital,  with  the  faces  of  monks 
and  nuns, — all  of  the  round  and  oily  stamp, 
—  with  beasts,  and  birds,  and  fruits,  and 
flowers.  The  glaring  scarlet  hangings  cluster 
in  festoons  around  the  capitals  of  the  pillars  ; 
and  between  the  pillars  appear,  upon  the 
panneled  walls,  portraits  of  the  Van  Huyden 
family,  in  frames  of  oak,  and  walnut,  and 
gilt,  for  seven  generations  ;  beginning  with 
the  gi'im  face  of  the  ancestor,  who  landed 
on  Manhattan  Island  in  the  year  1620,  and 
ending  with  the  youthful,  artist-like  face  of 
Carl  Kaphael,  painted  in  1842.  (This  por- 
trait of  Nameless,  Martin  Fulmer  procured 
from  the  study  of  Cornelius  Berman.)  The 
lofty  windoAvs  on  one  side,  w^ere  hidden  by 
curtains  of  dark  purple.  At  one  end  of  the 
spacious  hall,  was  a  broad  hearth,  blazing 
with  a  cheerful  wood-fire  ;  at  the  other,  on  a 
dark  platform,  arose  a  marble  image  of  **  the 
MASTER,"  as  large  as  life,  and  thrown  dis- 
tinctly into  view  by  the  dark  background. 

There  are  two  altars  covered  with  black 
velvet,  fringed  with  gold  ;  one  on  each  side 
-of  the  table.  The  altar  on  the  right  supports 
the  coflSin  ;  the  one  on  the  left,  the  iron  chest ; 
and  around  coffin  and  iron  chest,  as  for  a 
funeral,  tall  wax  candles  are  dimly  burning. 

The  dark  panneled  walls, — the  huge  pil- 
lars, quaintly  carved, — the  pictures,  all  save 
one,  dim  with  age, — the  hearth  and  its  flame, 
— the  white  image  of  the  Savior, — the  cen- 
tral table,  with  its  eight  arm-chairs,  —  the 
dark  altars,  with  wax  candles  burning  around 
cofiin  and  iron  chest, — all  combined  to  pre- 
sent an  eff"ect  which,  deepened  by  the  dead 
stillness,  is  altogether  impressive  and  ghast- 
like. 

"  The  place  looks  like  the  eld  time,"  ex- 


claims Martin  Fulmer,  slowly  surveying  t.s 
every  detail, — "  and, — " 

The  sound  of  the  old  clock  again  !  How  it 
rings  through  the  mansion, — rings,  and  swells, 
and  dies  away  !   One, — two, — three, — four  ! 

Martin  Fulmer  sinks  into  the  arm-chair, 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  from  beneath 
his  waistcoat  draws  forth  a  parchment, — the 
last  will  and  testament  of  Gulian  Van  Huyden. 

"  There  is  no  other  Avay, — I  must  begin 
he  casts  his  eyes  toward  a  narrow  doorway, 
across  which  is  stretched  a  curtain.  Behind 
that  curtain  wait  the  heirs  of  the  Van  Huy- 
den estate.  The  old  man,  erect  in  his  chair, 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  passes  his  right 
hand  thoughtfully  over  his  broad  forehead, 
and  through  the  masses  of  his  hair,  as  white 
as  snow. 

And  then  directing  his  gaze  toward  the 
doorway,  he  begins  to  call  the  names  of  the 
Seven  : 

"  Evelyn  Somers  !" 

No  answer,  —  the  merchant  prince  now 
sleeps  a  corpse  within  his  palace. 

"  Beverly  Barron  !"  —  the  name  of  the 
man  of  fashion  resounds  through  the  still  hall. 

But  Beverly  will  never  fold  in  his  arms 
again,  the  form  of  a  tempted  and  yielding 
maiden  ;  never  place  his  lips  again  to  the 
lips  of  a  faithless  wife,  whom  he  has  mad« 
false  to  her  marriage  vow, — never^  press  p 
father's  kiss  upon  the  brow  of  his  mother- 
less child.  Beverly  also  has  gone  to  hi? 
account. 

"  Harry  Royalton !"  exclaimed  Martir 
Fulmer,  and  again  directed  his  eyes  toward 
the  door. 

Is  that  his  step,  the  man  of  the  race- 
course, the  hero  of  the  cock-pit  and  faro- 
bank  ?  No.  It  was  but  a  breath  of  aii 
among  the  window-curtains.  But  where,  in 
this  hour,  of  all  others,  is  Harry  Royalton  of 
Hill  Royal  ?  It  cannot  be  told.  He  does  not 
appear. 

.  Martin  Fulmer,  with  something  of  surprise 
upon  his  face,  spoke  the  fourth  name, — 

"  Herman  Barnhurst !" 

Herman,  the  voluptuous,  and  the  fair- 
cheeked,  and  eagle-eyed,  —  the  victim  of 
beautiful  Marion  Merlin, — the  husband  of 
outraged  Fanny  Lansdale, — the  seducer  of 
poor  Alice  Burney, — Herman  does  not  an- 
swer the  summons. 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEAES. 


2G0 


A  wild  hope  began  to  ^leam  in  the  deep 
v>yesof  Martin  Fulmer, — "  Four  of  the  seven 
absent, — why  not  all  ?"  And  he  called  the 
fifth  name;  the  name  of  one,  whom,  most 
of  all  others,  he  desired  to  be  present : —  j 

"  Arthur  Dcrmoyne  !" 

Loud  and  deep  it  swelled,  but  there  was 
no  reply.  Enthusiast  and  mechanic,  who, 
at  your  work-bench,  have  laid  out  plans  of 
social  regeneration, — who,  amid  the  clatter 
of  hamme\^,  and  hum  of  toil,  have  heard 
the  words  of  the  four  gospels,  and  thought 
of  wealth  only  as  the  means  of  putting  those 
words  into  deeds, — where  do  you  linger  at 
this  hoOT  ?  Alas,  Dermoyne  is  silent ;  he 
does  not  appear. 

The  light  in  Martin's  eyes  grew  brighter, 
*'  Five  of  the  Seven,  why  not  all  !" 

*'  Gabriel  Godlike  !"  he  pronounced  the 
name,  and  paused  in  suspense  for  the  an- 
swer to  the  summons. 

"  Here  !"  cried  a  voice  of  thunder,  and 
through  the  parted  curtains,  the  imposing 
form  of  the  statesman  emerged  into  light. 
His  broad  chest  was  clad  in  a  blue  coat  with 
bright  metal  buttons;  a  white  cravat  made 
his  bronzed  face  look  yet  darker;  he  ad- 
vanced vvnth  a  heavy  stride,  his  great  fore- 
head looming  boldh'  in  the  light,  his  eyes 
deep  sunken  beneath  the  brows,  glaring  like 
living  coals.  His  cheek  was  flushed, — with 
wine — or  with  the  excitement  of  the  hour? 

Ponderous  and  gloomy  and  grand,  as 
wheu  he  arose  to  scatter  thunderbolts  through 
the  thronged  senate, — attired  in  the  same 
brown  coat  which  he  wore  on  state  occasions, 
— he  came  to  the  table,  assumed  a  seat  op- 
posite Dr.  Martin  Fulmer,  and  said  in  his 
deepest  bass, — "  I  am  here,  and  ready  for 
the  final  settlement  of  the  Van  Huyden 
estate." 

It  is  no  shame  to  Dr.  Fulmer  to  say, 
that  he  had  rather  confronted  the  entire 
Seven  together,  than  to  have  to  deal  with 
this  man  alone.  "  The  estate  decreed  into 
those  hands,  which  know  neither  remorse  or 
fear  ?" — he  shuddered. 

Then  he  called  the  seventh  name, — 

"  Israel  Yorke  !" 

No  delay  this  time.    With  a  hop  and  a 
spring, — spectacles  on  nose,  and  sharp  gray  j 
eyes  glancing  all  about  him, — the  little  finan-  I 
cier  came  through  the  curtain,  and  advancing  I 


;  to  the  table,  seated  himself  beside  Godlike, 
like  Mammon  on  right  of  Lucifer. 

"And  I  am  here,"  he  said,  pulling  his 
whiskers,  and  then  running  his  hand  over 
j  his  bald  head, — "  Here  and  ready  for  the 
final  settlement  of  the  Van  Huyden  estate." 

"And  is  this  all  ?"  ejaculated  Martin  Ful- 
mer ;  and  once  more  he  called  the  names  of 
the  Seven.    There  was  no  response. 

CHAPTER  m. 

"  SAY,  BETWEEN  US  THREE  !" 

Martin  Fulmer  uttered  a  deep  sigh,  and 
then  gazing  upon  the  representatives  of 
Satan  and  of  Mammon  he  said  !  "  Gentle- 
men, you  know  the  pur^wse  for  which  you 
are  here  ?" 

"  We  do,"  they  said,  and  each  one  laid 
his  copy  of  the  will  on  the  table. 

"  The -first  thing  in  order,  is  the  reading  of 
the  Will,"  said  Martin  Fulmer  solemnly. 
And  while  a  dead  stillness  pervaded,  he  read 
the  will ;  and  afterward  briefly  recounted 
the  circumstances  connected  with  the  death 
of  the  testator. 

When  he  had  finished,  the  silence  remain- 
ed for  some  moments  unbroken.  The  lights 
flashed  upon  the  smart  concealed  visage  of 
the  financier, — the  grand  satanic  face  of  the 
statesman, — the  calm  face  of  Martin  Fulmer, 
with  the  bold  brow,  and  hair  as  white  as 
snow  ;  and  as  a  breath  of  wind  moved  the 
lights,  they  flashed  fitfully  over  the  coffin, 
and  the  iron  chest,  the  cedar  pillars,  and  the 
marble  image. 

"  There  is  no  son  in  existence  ?"  asked 
Israel  nervously. 

"  None,"  answered  Martin  in  a  low  voice. 
"  He  did  not  die  in  a  cause  pre-eminent 
for  its  sanctity  ?"  asked  Gabriel  in  a  deep 
voice. 

"  It  cannot  be  said  that  he  did,"  answered 
Martin,  as  though  questioning  his  own  con- 
science. 

"  The  disposition  of  this  estate,  depends 
then  entirely  upon  your  integrity,  and  es- 
pecially upon  your  fidelity  to  your  oath  f"— 
the  statesman,  as  though  he  knew  the  chord 
most  sensitive,  in  the  strong  honest  nature  of 
Martin  Fulmer,  watched  him  keenly,  as  he 
awaited  his  answer. 
Martin  bowed  his  head. 


270 


"  Under  those  circumstances,  it  is  clear  to 
you,  is  it  not,  that  the  estate  falls  to  those 
of  the  Seven  Heirs,  Avho  are  now  present  ?" 

"  If  I  am  faithful  to  my  oath,  such  Avill 
be  my  disposition  of  the  estate." 

"Faithful  to  your  oath?"  echoed  Godlike. 

"  That  would  bo  highly  mimoral,"  said 
Israel  Yorkc. 

It  was  in  a  slow  and  measured  tone,  and 
with  his  venerable  head,  placed  firmly  on 
his  shoulders,  that  Martin  Fulraer  said, — 

"Sir,  you  know  me,"  to  Godlike, — "in 
the  times  of  the  Bank  panic,  I  met  you  in 
the  vestibule  of  the  senate,  and  had  some 
interesting  conversation  with  you.  You 
know  that  I  would  sooner  die  than  break  my 
word,  much  less  my  oath,  and  of  all  others, 
THE  OATH  which  I  took  to  Gulian  Van 
Huyden.  But  may  not  circumstances  arise 
in  which  the  breaking  of  that  oath  may  be  a 
lighter  crime,  than  strict  obedience  to  it  ?" 

Godlike  started — Yorke  half  rose  from  his 
chair. 

"Reflect  for  a  moment.  Circumstances 
have  arisen,  which  the  testator  could  not 
h;ive  ever  dreamed  of,  when  he  loaded  me 
with  this  trust,  under  the  seal  of  that  awful 
oath.  It  was  doubtless  his  wish  that  his 
estates,  swelled  by  the  accumulation  of 
twenty-one  years,  should  descend  into  the 
hands  of  his  son,  who  having  been  reared  in 
poverty  and  hardship,  would  know  how  to 
use  this  wealth  for  the  good  of  mankind, — 
or  in  the  absence  of  his  son,  that  it  should 
be  dispersed  for  the  good  of  the  race,  by  the 
hands  of  seven  persons,  selected  from  the 
descendants  of  the  original  Van  Huyden, 
and  scattered  throughout  the  Union.  Such 
was  doubtless  his  idea.  But  behold  how 
different  the  result.  The  son  is  dead.  Only 
two  of  the  Seven  are  here.  Shall  I,  adher- 
ing to  the  letter  of  the  law,  to  the  oath  in 
its  strictest  sense,  divide  this  great  estate 
between  you  two  ?  Or,  fearful  of  the  awful 
evil  which  you  may  work  to  the  world,  with 
this  untold  wealth,  shall  I — in  order  to 
avoid  this  evil, — refuse  to  divide  the  estate, 
and  take  upon  myself  the  moral  penalty  of 
the  broken  oath  ?" 

"  That  is  a  question  which  you  must  settle 
with  your  o\m  conscience,"  said  Godlike 
slowly,  as  he  fixed  his  gaze  upon  Martin 
Fulmer's  face. 


Was  he  aware  of  the  one  weak  point  in 
the  strong,  bold  mind  of  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer? 
Did  he  know  of  Dr.  Martin  Fulmer's  fear 
and  horror  of — the  unpardonable  sin  ? 

Martin  did  not  reply,  but  leaned  his  head 
upon  his  hand,  and  seemed  buried  in 
thought. 

"  In  order  to  understand  my  position, 
reflect, — twenty-one  years  ago,  the  estate 
was  but  two  millions  ;  behold  it  now  !"  He 
unlocked  the  portfolio,  and  drew  forth  two 
half  sheets  of  foolscap,  covered  with  writing 
in  a  delicate  but  legible  hand!  "  There  is 
a  brief  statement  of  the  estate  as  it  stands." 

Israel  eagerly  grasped  one  half  sheet ; 
Godlike  took  the  other.  Martin  Fulmer 
j  intensely  watched  their  faces  as  they  read. 

Rapidly  Godlike's  eagle  eye,  perused  that 
index  to  the  untold  wealth  of  the  Van  Huy- 
den estate. 

"  It  would  purchase  the  Presidency  of  the 
United  States  !"  he  muttered  with  a  heaving 
chest, — "  enthroned  upon  that  pedestal,  a 
man  might  call  kings  his  menials,  the  world 
his  plaything." 

"  One  hundred  millions!  Astor  multiplied 
by  Girard  !"  ejaculated  Israel  Yorke, — "with 
such  a  capital,  one  might  buy  Rothschild, 
and  keep  him  too  !" 

Glorious  and  eloquent  half  sheet  of  fools- 
cap !  Talk  of  Milton,  Shakspeare,  Homer, — 
your  poetry  is  worth  all  theirs  combined  ! 
What  flight  of  theirs,  in  their  loftiest  moods, 
can  match  in  sublimity,  the  simple  and  ma- 
jestic march  of  this  swelling  line, — 

"  One  hundred  millions  of  dollars!" 

"This  is  a  dream,"  said  Godlike, — and 
for  once  his  voice  was  tremulous. 

"  Enough  to  set  one  raving  !"  cried  Israel 
Yorke. 

"And  yet,  adhering  to  the  strict  letter  of 
my  oath, — "  the  voice  and  look  of  Martin 
Fulmer  was  sad, — despairing, — "  I  am  bound 
to  divide  this  incredible  wealth  between  you 
two." 

"  Say,  between  us  three !"  cried  a  new 
voice,  and  as  Martin  Fulmer  raised  his  head, 
and  the  others  started  in  their  seats,  the 
speaker  came  with  a  rapid  stride  from  the 
curtained  doorway  to  the  table. 

It  was  Randolph  Royalton,  the  white  slave. 
Folding  his  arms  upon  the  breast  of  his 
frock  coat^ — made  c^^  dark  blue  clotii, — 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-OXE  YEARS. 


271 


•which  was  buttoned  to  his  throat,  he  stood 
beside  the  table,  his  face  lividly  pale,  and 
his  dark  hair  floating  wild  and  disheveled 
about  his  forehead. 

"You! — a  negro!"  —  and  Godlike's  lip 
curled  in  sardonic  scorn. 

Trembling  as  with  an  excitement  contin- 
ued for  long  hours,  Randolph  turned  to 
Martin  Fulmer,  and  said  : 

"  I  am  the  oldest  child  of  John  Augustine 
Roj'alton,  and  his  lawful  heir.  And  I  am 
here  1  There  is  the  proof  that  my  father 
was  married  to  Herodia,  my  mother, — "  he 
placed  a  paper  in  the  hands  of  Martin  Ful- 
mer,— "  I  am  here  in  the  name  of  my  father, 
to  claim  my  portion  of  the  Van  Huyden 
estate." 

Israel  was  very  restless, — Godlike  very 
gloomy  and  full  of  scorn,  as  Martin  Fulmer 
attentively  perused  the  document. 

"You  have  a  copy  of  the  Will,  addressed 
to  your  father  ?"  asked  the  old  man,  raising 
his  eyes  to  Randolph's  colorless  face. 

Randolph  drew  a  parchment  from  the 
breast  of  his  coat, — "  There  is  my  father's 
copy,  superscribed  with  his  name." 

"  I  recognize  you  as  the  elder  son  of 
John  Augustine  Royalton,"  said  Dr.  Fulmer, 
very  calmly, — "  These  proofs  are  all  suffi- 
cient.   Be  seated,  sir." 

Randolph  uttered  a  wild  cry,  and  pressed 
his  forehead  with  both  hands. 

It  was  a  moment  before  he  recovered  his 
composure.  "  Y^'ou  ssiid  negro  !  just  now!" 
he  turned  to  Godlike,  his  blue  eyes  flashing 
with  deadly  hatred,  "learn  sir,  that  had 
yonder  bit  of  paper  failed  to  establish  my 


from  !" 

Godlike  repeated  that  great  name,  in  a 
tone  of  mingled  incredulity  and  contempt. 

"Ay,  he  was  the  father  of  Herodia, — I 
am  his  grandson.  There  is  my  grandfather's 
handwriting,"  he  placed  the  paper  in  the 
hands  of  Martin  Fulmer,  "  Read  it,  sir,  for 
the  information  of  this  statesman.  Let  him 
know  that  the  few  drops  of  negro  hlood  which 
flow  in  my  veins,  are  lost  and  drowned  in 
the  blood  of  a  man  whose  name  is  history, — 
of  !" 

Martin  Fulmer  read  the  paper  aloud,  add- 
ing, "  You  perceive  he  speaks  the  truth.  He 
IS  the  grandson  of  ." 


"Pardon  me, —  I  was  hasty,"  said  the 
statesman,  extending  his  hand. 

Randolph  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  ex- 
tended hand,  but  dropping  into  a  chair,  said, 
quietly, — "  There  are  three  of  us  now,  I  be- 
lieve." 

And  he  regarded  the  statesman  with,  a 
look  which  was  full  of  triumph  and  scorn. 

Martin  Fulmer  looked  into  the  faces  of  the 
three,  and  then  bent  his  head  in  deep 
thought, — deep  and  harrowing  thought,  ex- 
tending over  every  instant  of  twenty-one 
years. 

From  the  portfolio  he  drew  forth  two 
half  sheets  of  paper,  covered  with  writing  in 
his  own  hand.  One  bore  the  signature  of 
Gabriel  Godlike,  the  other  that  of  Israel 
Yorke. 

"  These  papers,  embracing  an  absolute  re- 
nunciation of  all  their  claims  upon  the  Yan 
Huyden  estate,  they  signed  before  the  Court 
of  Ten  Millions, — signed,  without  knowing 
their  contents.    Shall  I  produce  them  ?" 

He  hesitated. — "  But  no  !  no  !  I  am  not 
clear  as  to  the  right  of  any  one  to  dispose  of 
his  share." 

Martin  Fulmer,  before  the  bar  of  his  own 
conscience,  was  fanatically  just.  He  might 
use  these  papers,  but  before  his  own  con- 
science he  dared  not. 

"  I  am  decided,"  he  exclaimed,  despair 
impressed  upon  his  face, — "  I  must  fulfill  my 
oath.  Gentlemen,  I  recognize  you  as  the 
three  heirs  of  the  Van  Huyden  estate,  you 
having  appeared  at  the  appointed  hour." 

The  same  electric  throb  of  joy — joy  in- 
tense to  madness, — ran  through  the  bosoms 
of  the  three,  but  manifested  itself  in  differ- 
ent ways.  The  diminutive  financier  bounded 
from  his  chair  ;  Godlike  uttered  an  oath  ; 
Randolph  muttered  between  his  teeth,  "  The 
negro  is,  indeed,  then,  one  of  the  three." 

"  I  will  presently  give  to  each  of  you  a 
certificate,  over  my  own  hand,  stating  that 
you  appeared  at  the  appointed  hour,  and 
pledging  myself,  within  a  week,  to  apportion 
this  vast  estate  among  you." 

Without  taking  time  to  notice  the  ex- 
pression of  their  faces,  he  continued, — 

"  But  first,  we  must  open  this,"  —  he 
pointed  to  the  iron  chest, — "  and  this," — to 
the  coffin,  around  which,  as  around  the  iron 
1  chest,  tall  wax  candles  were  dimly  burning, 


272 


TflE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


**  Whatever  these  may  contain,  they  cannot 
atfect  nor  change  my  decision.  But  they 
must  be  opened, — so  the  will  directs." 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THl!  LEGATE  OF   HIS  HOLINESS. 

As  he  rose  from  his  seat  and  advanced 
t\:,ward  the  iron  chest,  the  curtain  of  the  door- 
way was  thrust  aside,  and  the  light  shone 
upon  a  slender  form,  clad  in  black,  and  upon 
a  pallid  ^'ace,  framed  in  masses  of  jet-black 
hair. 

"  Gaspar  Manuel !  at  last  I"  ejaculated 
Martin  Fulmer. 

"  Pardon  me  for  this  intrusion,"  said  Gas- 
par  Manuel,  in  a  tone  of  quiet  dignity, — "  I 
would  have  seen  you  ere  this,  but  unexpected 
events  prevented  me.  It  is  of  the  last  im- 
portance that  I  should  converse  with  you 
without  delay." 

The  entrance  of  the  nan,  whose  slender 
form  was  clad  in  a  frock-coat  of  black  cloth, 
single-breasted,  and  reaching  to  the  knees, — 
whose  face,  unnaturally  pale,  was  in  strong 
contrast  with  the  blackness  of  his  moustache 
and  beard,  and  of  the  hair,  which  fell  in 
wavy  masses  to  his  shoulders, — created  a 
singular  and  marked  impression. 

With  one  impulse,  Godlike,  Yorke  and 
Handolph  rose  to  their  feet.  For  the  first 
time,  they  remarked  that  the  stranger  wore 
on  his  right  breast  a  golden  cross,  and  carried 
in  his  left  hand  a  casket  of  dark  wood, — 
perchance  ebony. 

"  I  wish  to  see  you  in  regard  to  the  lands 
in  California,  near  the  mission  of  San  Luis," 
said  Gaspar  Manuel,  his  voice,  touched 
with  a  foreign  accent,  yet  singularly  sweet 
and  empl\atic  in  its  intonation.  —  "Lands 
claimed  by  yourself,  on  behalf  of  the  Van 
Huyden  estate,  and  also  by  the  Order  of 
Jesus.  Many  acres  of  these  lands  are  rich 
in  everything  that  can  bless  a  climate  soft  as 
Italy,  but  there  are  one  thousand  barren  acres 
which  abound  in  fruit  like  this." 

He  placed  the  casket  upon  the  table,  un- 
'locked  it,  and  displayed  its  contents. 

"  Gold  !"  burst  from  every  lip, 

"  Those  thousand  acres  contain  gold  suffi- 
cient to  change  the  destinies  of  the  world," 
said  Gaspar  Manuel,  calmly,  as  he  fixed  his 
dazzling  eyes  upon  the  face  of  Godlike. — 


I  "  The  contest  for  the  possession  of  this  un- 
told wealth  lies  between  the  Order  of  Jesus 
and  the  Van  Huyden  estate." 

"  Have  not  the  ]\Icxican  Government  ap- 
pointed a  Commissioner  to  decide  upon  their 
respective  claims  ?"  As  he  asked  the  ques- 
tion. Dr.  Martin  Fulmer,  (who,  as  Ezekiel 
Bogart,  had  seen  Gaspar  Manuel  dressed  as 
a  man  of  the  world)  gazed  in  surprise  upon 
that  costume  which  indicated  the  Jesuit. 
There  was  suspicion  as  well  as  surprise  in 
his  gaze. 

"  That  Commissioner  is  one  of  the  rulers 
of  the  Jesuits, — an  especial  Legate  of  the 
Roman  Pope,"  continued  Martin,  surveying 
I  Gaspar  Manuel  with  a  look  of  deepening 
suspicion.    "  His  name  is  " 

"  Never  mind  his  name,"  internipted  Gas- 
par Manuel, — "  Let  it  satisfy  you  that  I  am 
a  Jesuit,  perchance  one  of  the  rulers  of  that 
Order.  And  I  am  the  Legate  of  whom  you 
speak." 

"You!"  echoed  Martin  Fulmer,  and  his 
ejaculation  was  repeated  by  the  others. 

"I  am  that  Commissioner,"  replied  Gas- 
par Manuel,  "and  my  decision  has  been 
made.  Allow  me  a  few  moments  for  reflec- 
tion, and  I  will  make  it  known  to  you. 
While  you  converse  with  those  gentlemen, 
I  will  warm  myself  at  yonder  fire,  for  the  cli- 
mate is  hard  to  bear,  after  the  bland  atmo- 
sphere of  Havanna." 

With  a  wave  of  the  hand  and  a  slight  in- 
clination of  the  head,  he  retired  from  the 
table  and  bent  his  steps  toward  the  fire-place. 
Seating  himself  in  an  arm-chair,  he  now 
gazed  into  the  flame  with  his  flashing  eyes, 
and  now, — over  his  shoulder, — surveyed  the 
banquet-hall.  Then  taking  tablets  and  pen- 
cil from  a  side-pocket,  he  seemed  absorbed 
in  the  mazes  of  a  profound  arithmetical  cal- 
culation ;  but  every  now  and  then  he  raised 
his  eyes,  and  with  that  dazzling  glance,  took 
in  every  detail  of  the  banqHel-hall. 

Meanwhile,  the  group  around  the  table 
had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  impression, 
produced  by  his  presence. 

"  A  singular  man, — eh  ?"  quoth  Yorke. 

"  A  man  of  rank.  I  think  I  have  seen  his 
face  in  Washington  City,"  remarked  Godlike, 

"A  dignitary  of  the  Catholic  Church," 
exclaimed  Randolph. — "  A  man  of  no  com* 
mon  order." 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


273 


As  for  Martin  Fulmer,  glancing  by  turns 
at  the  box,  filled  with  golden  ore,  and  at  the_ 
form  of  the  Legate,  who  was  seated  quietly 
b}'  the  fire-place,  he  said,  with  a  sigh, — 
"  More  gold,  more  wealth  !"  and  thought  of 
Carl  Raphael,  the  son  of  Gulian  Van  Huy- 
den. 

"Let  us  open  the  iron  chest,"  he  said,  and 
placed  the  key  in  the  lock,  while  Randolph, 
Godlike  and  Yorke,  gathered  round,  in  mute 
suspense. 

But  ere  the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  a  new 
interruption  took  place.  The  aged  servant, 
Michael,  entered,  and  placed  a  slip  of  paper, 
on  which  a  single  line  was  written,  in  the 
hands  of  Martin  Fulmer.  The  old  man  read 
it  at  a  glance,  and  at  once  his  face  glowed,  his 
eyes  shone  with  new  light. 

'*  The  person  who  wrote  this,  Michael, — 
where — where  is  he  ?"  he  said,  in  a  tremu- 
lous voice. 

"  In  the  reception-room,"  answered  Mi- 
chael. 

*'  Show  him  here, — at  once, — at  once, — 
quick,  I  say  !"  and  he  seized  Michael  by  the 
arm,  and  pointed  to  the  door,  his  face  dis- 
playing every  sign  of  irrepressible  agitation. 
Michael  hurried  from  the  room. 

"  Let  us  all  thank  God,  for  He  has  not 
failed  us  !"  cried  Martin  Fulmer,  spreading 
forth  his  hands,  as  he  walked  wildly  to  and 
fro.—*'  The  son  of  Gulian  Van  Huyden  is 
not  dead  !" 

A  thunderbolt  crushing  through  the  ceil- 
ing, would  not  have  created  half  the  con- 
sternation caused  by  these  words. 

They  dashed  the  hopes  of  Randolph,  God- 
like and  Yorke  to  the  dust. 

"  Not  dead  !"  they  echoed,  in  a  breath. 

"He  is  not  dead.  He  is  living,  and  in 
this  house.  In  a  moment  he  will  be  here, — 
here,  to  claim  his  father's  estate." 

And  in  the  wildness  of  his  joy,  Martin 
Fulmer  hurried  to  and  fro,  now  wringing  his 
hands,  now  spreading  them  forth  in  thank- 
fulness to  heaven. 

"I  knew,"  said  the  old  man,  standing 
erect,  the  light  shining  full  upon  his  white 
.hairs,  "I  knew  that  Providence  would  not 
desert  me !" 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    SON    AT  LAST. 

The  curtain  moved  again,  and  two  per- 
sons came  slowly  into  the  room ;  a  man 
whose  wounded  arm  was  carried  in  a  sling 
and  whose  livid  face  was  marked  by  recent 
wounds, — a  boy,  whose  graceful  form  was 
enveloped  in  a  closely  fitting  frock-coat, 
while  his  young  face  was  shaded  by  locks -of 
glossy  hair. 

"Martin  Fulmer!  behold  the  lost  child 
of ■  Gulian  Van  Huyden!"  cried  Colonel 
Tarleton,  urging  the  boy  forward. 

At  sight  of  Tarleton,  Martin  Fulmer  felt 
his  whole  being  contract  with  loathing,  but 
rushing  forward,  he  seized  the  boy  by  the 
arms,  and  looked  earnestly  into  his  face, — a 
face  touching  in  its  expression,  with  clear, 
deep  eyes,  that  now^  seemed  blue,  now  gray, 
and  round  outlines,  and  framed  in  locks  of 
flowing  hair,  of  the  richest  chestnut  brown. 

"  This, — this,  is  not  Carl  Raphael !"  ejacu- 
lated Martin  Fulmer,  turning  fiercely  upon 
Tarleton, — 

A  smile  crossed  the  bloodless  lips  of 
Tarleton. 

"  Not  Carl  Raphael,  but  still  the  son  of 
Gulian.  A  word  will  explain  all.  On  the 
last  night  of  her  life,  Alice  Van  Huyden 
gave  birth  to  two  children  :  they  were  born 
within  a  half  hour  of  each  other.  One  was 
taken  from  her  bed,  and  borne  away  by  her 
husband.  The  other  I  bore  to  my  home, 
educated  as  my  own,  and  now  he  stands 
before  you,  the  lawful  heir  of  his  father's 
estate.  Look  at  his  face,  and,  if  you  can, 
say  that  he  is  not  Gulian's  son." 

This  revelation  was  listened  to  with  the 
most  intense  interest  by  Randolph,  Godlike, 
Yorke, — and  Gaspar  Manuel,  attracted  from 
the  fire-place  by  the  sound  of  voices,  looked 
over  their  shoulders  at  the  singular  group, — 
I  the  boy,  with  Tarleton  on  one  hand,  and 
Martin  Fulmer  on  the  other. 

Long  and  intently  Martin  Fulmer  perused 
that  youthful  countenance,  which,  with 
I  downcast  eyes,  seemed  to  avoid  his  gaze. 

"  Carl  Raphael  Van  Huyden  is  lost,"  ex- 
claimed Martin  Fulmer,  "but  the  face,  the 
look  of  Gulian  Van  Huyden  lives  again  in 
this  boy.  Gentlemen,  behold  the  son  of 
Gulian^Van  Huyden,  the  heir  to  his  estate  !" 


274 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


He  urged  the  shrinking  boy  toward  tlie 
light. 

'*  I  will  not,"  cried  the  l)Ov,  raising  his 
head  and  surveying  the  group  with  Hashing 
eyes, — "  I  will  not  submit  to  be  made  an 
accomplice  in  this  imposture — " 

"  Child  !"  said  Tarleton,  sternly. 

"  Nay,  you  shall  not  force  me  to  it.  Hear 
me  one  and  all,"  and  he  tore  open  his  coat 
and  vest,  and  laid  bare  his  breast,  "  I  am  the 
child  of  Gulian  Van  Pluyden,  but  not  his 
son." 

It  was  a  woman's  bosom  which  the  open 
vest  bared  to  the  light. 

A  dead  stillness  followed  this  revelation. 

And  the  center  of  the  group  stood  the 
beautiful  girl  in  her  male  attire,  her  bosom 
heaving  in  the  light,  while  her  eyes  flashed 
through  their  tears. 

"I  will  not  submit  to  be  made  the  accom- 
plice of  this  man's  schemes,"  she  pointed 
to  Tarleton, — '*  As  the  daughter  of  Gulian 
Van  Huyden,  I  cannot  inherit  my  father's 
estate." 

At  this  point,  Gaspar  Manuel  stepped  for- 
ward,— Yes  you  can,  my  child,"  he  said, 
and  drew  the  disguised  girl  to  his  breast,  **  it 
is  your  father  himself  who  tells  you  so, 
daughter."  And  he  kissed  her  on  the  fore- 
head, while  his  dark  hair  hid  her  face. 

Then  as  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  he  raised 
his  face,  and  with  one  hand,  swept  back  the 
dark  hair  from  his  brow, — "  Martin  Fulmer, 
don't  you  remember  me  ?"  and  then  to 
Colonel  Tarleton,  —  "  and  you,  brother,  you 
certainly  don't  forget  me  ?" 

That  scene  cannot  be  painted  in  words. 

"  Gulian  ! "  was  all  that  Tarleton  or 
Charles  Van  Huyden  could  say,  as  he  shrank 
back  appalled  and  blasted  before  his  brother's 
smile. 

As  for  Martin  Fulmer,  after  one  eager 
and  intense  look,  he  felt  his  knees  bend  be- 
neath him,  and  his  head  droop  on  his  breast, 
as  he  uttered  his  soul  in  the  words, — "  It  is 
Gulian  come  back  to  life  again." 

CHAPTER  VI. 

A  LONG  ACCOUNT  SETTLED. 

Back  from  his  brother's  gaze,  step  by  step, 
shrank  Tarleton  or  Charles  Van  Huyden,  his 
eyes  still  chained  to  that  face,  which  the 


[grave  seemed  to  have  yielded  up,  to  blast 
j  his  schemes  in  the  very  moment  of  their 
I  triumph. 

!  IJis  own  child  dead, — the  stain  of  Carl 
Raphael's  blood  upon  his  soul, — he  felt  like 
a  man  wlio  stands  amid  the  ruins  of  a  falling 
house,  when  the  last  prop  gives  way. 

With  a  cry  that  was  scarcely  human,  in 
its  awful  anguish,  he  turned  and  fled.  Fled 
from  the  banquet-room,  a^d  through  the 
adjoining  chamber,  into  the  darkness  of  the 
corridor.  His  mind,  strained  to  its  utmost 
tension  by  the  perpetual  excitement  of  the 
last  twenty-four  hours,  gave  way  all  at  once, 
like  a  bow  that,  drawn  to  its  full  power,  sud- 
denh'  snaps,  even  as  a  withered  reed.  All 
was  dark  around  him  as  he  rushed  along  the 
corridor,  but  that  darkness  was  made  lumi- 
nous by  his  soul.  It  was  peopled  with  faces, 
that  seemed  to  be  encircled  by  lurid  light. 
The  worst  agony  that  can  befall  a  mortal 
man  fell  upon  him.  Nerves  disordered, 
brain  unstrung,  his  very  thoughts  became 
living  things,  and  chased  him  through  the 
darkness.  The  face  of  Evelyn  Somers  was 
before  him,  gazing  upon  him  with  fixed 
eyeballs.  And  his  steps  were  suddenly 
checked,  by  an  agonized  countenance,  which 
was  sinking  in  wintery  waves,  that  seemed 
to  roll  about  his  very  feet.  He  was  touched 
on  the  shoulder, — his  dead  daughter  ran  be- 
side him  in  her  shroud,  linking  her  arm  in 
his,  and  bending  forward  her  face,  which 
looked  up  into  his  own,  with  lips  that  had 
no  blood  in  them,  and  eyes  that  had  no  life. 
And  if  the  darkness  was  full  of  faces,  the  air 
was  full  of  voices  ;  voices  whispering,  shout- 
ing, yelling,  all  through  each  other,  and  yet, 
ever}'  voice  distinctly  heard, — all  the  voices 
that  he  had  heard  in  his  lifetime  were  speak- 
ing to  him  now.  Well  might  he  have  ex- 
claimed in  the  words  of  Cain, — "  My  pun- 
ishment is  greater  than  I  can  bear." 

If  he  could  have  only  rid  himself  of  Frank, 
who  ran  by  his  side,  in  her  shroud  !  But 
no, — there  she  was, — her  arm  in  his, — her  ■ 
face  bent  forward  looking  up  into  his  own, 
with  lips  that  had  no  blood,  and  eyes  that 
had  no  life. 

He  talked  to  those  phantoms,  —  he  bade 
them  back, — he  rushed  on,  tnrough  the  cor- 
ridor, and  ascended  the  dark  stairs  with  hor- 
rid shrieks.    And  the  face  of  Carl  Raphael, 


THE  BAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


275 


struggling  in  the  waves,  went  before  him  at 
every  step. 

He  reached  at  length  the  narrow  garret, 
in  which  years  agone,  Gulian  Van  Huyden 
bid  Martin  Fiilmer,  farewell.  Here,  as  he 
beard  the  storm  beat  against  the  window 
panes,  he  for  a  moment  recovered  his  shat- 
tered senses. 

"I'm  nervous,"  he  cried,  "if  I  had  been 
drinking,  I  would  think  I  had  the  mania. 
Let  me  recover  m^'self.  Where  in  the  deuce 
am  I  ?" 

A  heavy  step  -was  heard  on  the  stairwa}-, 
and  a  form  plunged  into  the  room,  bearing 
Tarleton  against  the-  wall.  It  was  no  2)hau- 
tom,  but  the  form  of  a  stalwart  man. 

"  Halloo  !  Who  are  you  ?"  cried  a  hoarse 
voice, — it  was  the  voice  of  Ninety-One,  and 
as  he  spoke,  shouts  came  up  the  narrow 
stairway  from  the  j^assage  below.  "  You 
set  here  to  trap  me, — speak  ?" 

And  the  hand  of  Ninety-One,  clutched 
the  throat  of  Tarleton  Avith  an  iron  grip. 

"  This  way, — this  way,"  cried  a  voice, 
and  a  gleam  of  light  shooting  up  the  stairs, 
through  the  narrow  doorway,  fell  upon  the 
livid  faci  of  Tarleton. 

"  0,  we  have  met  at  last  ?  Do  you  hear 
them  shouts  ?  Blossom  follered  by  the 
poleese  are  in  the  house,  and  on  my  track,  for 
the  murder  of  young  Somers.  In  a  second 
they'll  be  here.  Now  I've  got  you,  and 
we'll  settle  that  long  account, — we  will  by 
G— d  !" 

"  You  are  choking  me, — A-h  ! "  gasped 
Tarleton,  as  he  was  dragged  toward  the  win- 
dow. The  shouts  from  below  grew  more 
distinct,  and  once  more  the  light  flashed  up 
the  stairs. 

"Carl  Raphael  died  bydrownin'  and  that's 
very  like  chokin',"  whispered  Ninet\^-One, 
as  he  bent  his  face  near  to  the  struggling 
wretch.  "I've  no  way  of  escape, — even  old 
Fulmer  can't  save  me.  And  so  we'll  settle 
that  long  account." 

"You  are  choking  me,  —  do  not,  —  do 
not — " 

"  You  know  all  the  items,  so  there's  no 
use  0'  dwellin'  on  'em,"  the  hoarse  voice  of 
Ninety-One  was  heard  above  the  pelting  of 
the  storm,  "  but  the  raiurder  of  that  'ar  boy 
makes  the  docket  full.    Here  goes — " 

Dragging  Tarleton  to  the  window,  he 


struck  the  sash,  with  one  hand,  and  then 
kicked  against  it  with  all  his  strength.  It 
yielded  with  a  crash,  and  the  snow  and  sleet 
rushes  through  the  aperture  in  a  blast. 

"  Spare  me  !    Mercy  !    0  do  not — " 

Ninety-One  crept  through  the  narrow 
aperture,  out  upon  the  roof,  and  dragged 
Tarleton  after  him.  Then  there  were  two 
forms  standing  erect  for  a  moment,  in  tha 
gloom,  and  then  the  blast  bore  away  the 
sound  of  voices,  and  a  howl  that  was  heard, 
far  and  long,  through  the  night. 

"  This  way  !  We've  caught  the  old  fox," 
said  a  well  known  voice,  and  the  red  face 
of  Blossom,  adorned  with  carbuncles,  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway,  Avhile  the  lantern 
which  he  held,  filled  the  gaiTet  with  light. 

"  This  way,"  he  sprang  through  the  door-  ^ 
way,  and  followed  by  half  a  dozen  men 
in  thick  coats,  and  with  maces  in  their  hands, 
he  ran  toward  the  w  indow,  "  he's  out  upon 
the  roof." 

He  held  the  lantern  over  his  head,  and 
looked  without,  while  the  snow  and  sleet 
beat  in  his  face.  From  the  garret-window 
the  roof  fell  with  a  sudden  slope,  for  the 
space  of  two  yards,  and  there  it  ended.  By 
the  lantern  light,  he  saw  some  rude  traces 
of  footsteps  in  the  snow,  and  the  print  of  a 
hand.  A  glance  was  sufficient.  When  he 
turned  to  confront  his  comrades,  his  red  face 
was  white  as  a  sheet — 

"  By  G- — d  the  old  convic'  has  gone  an* 
jumi)ed  from  the  roof, — four  storys  high — 
as  I'm  a  sinner  !" 

CHAPTER  YII. 

IN  THE  BANQUET-EOOM  ONCE  MORE. 

Meanwhile  in  the  banquet-room,  the 
Legate  of  the  Pope,  with  the  form  of  his 
daughter,  in  her  male  attire,  nestling  on  his 
breast,  raised  his  head,  and  surveved  the 
faces  of  the  spectators,  who  had  not  \ei  re- 
covered from  their  surprise.  His  face  pale 
and  worn,  as  with  yeare  of  consuming 
thought,  his  eyes  bright  as  with  the  fire  of 
a  soul  never  at  rest,  held  every  gaze  enchained 
as  he  spoke, — 

"  Rise  Martin  Fulmer !"  he  extended  his 
hand  to  the  kneeling  man,  "rise,  and  let  me 
look  upon  the  face  of — an  honest  man." 

As  though  disturbed  in  the  midst  of  a 


276 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEAES. 


dream,  Martin  Fiilmer  rose,  his  head  with 
his  snow-white  hair  and  protuberant  brow, 
presenting  a  strong  contrast  to  the  pallid 
face,  dark  hair  and  beard  of  the  Legate. 

"Look  upon  me,  Martin  Fulmer,  and 
steadily.    Do  you  recognize  me." 

"Gulian  Van  Huyden !"  ejaculated  the 
old  man. 

The  Legate  surveyed  Randolph,  Godlike, 
Yorke,  wlio  formed  a  group  behind  the 
Doctor,  while  in  the  background,  the  lights 
burned  faintly  around  the  iron  chest  and 
coffin.  ;^ven  as  the  Legate  looked  around, 
Randolph  turned  aside,  and  leaning  against 
frame  of  yonder  window,  pushed  the  curtains 
aside,  and  looked  forth  upon  the  cold,  dark 
night.  Not  so  cold  and  dark  as  his  own 
bitter  fate  !  Well  was  it  for  him,  that  his 
face  was  turned  from  the  light !  That  face, 
terribly  distorted,  now  revealed  the  hell 
which  was  raging  in  his  breast.  His  soul 
stained  with  crime,  his  last  hope  blotted 
out,  whither  should  he  turn  ?    Grandson  of 

 it  had  been  better  for  you, 

had  you  never  been  born  ! 

After  his  silent  survey,  the  Legate  spoke  : 
"Another  place  and  another  hour,  will 
be  needed,  to  repeat  the  full  details  of 
my  life,  since  twenty-one  years  ago,  I  left 
this  house, — to  die,"  in  an  attitude  of  calm 
dignity,  and  with  a  voice  and  look,  that 
held  every  soul,^-  the  Legate  spoke  these 
words, — "  I  was  rescued  from  the  waves,  by 
a  boat  that  chanced  to  be  passing  from  the 
shore  to  a  ship  in  the  bay.  Upon  that  ship, 
I  again  unclosed  my  eyes  to  life,  and  watch- 
ed through  the  cabin  windows,  the  last 
glimpse  of  the  American  shore,  growing 
faint  and  fainter  over  the  waves.  Thus 
called  back  to  life, — my  name  in  my  native 
land,  only  known  as  the  name  of  the  Suicide, 
my  estates  in  the  hands  of  Martin  Fulmer, 
left  to  the  chances  or  the  providence  of 
twenty-one  years, — I  resolved  to  live.  The 
ship  (the  captain  and  crew  were  foreigners,) 
bore  me  to  an  Italian  port.  I  sold  the  jewels 
which  were  about  my  person  when  I  plunged 
into  the  river,  and  found  myself  in  possession 
of  a  competence.  Then,  in  search  of  peace, 
anxious  to  drown  the  past,  and  still  every 
emotion  of  other  days,  by  a  life  of  self-denial, 
I  went  to  Rome,  I  entered  the  Propaganda, 
-la  the  course  of  time  I  became  a  priest,  and 


then,  well !  twenty-one  years  passed  ir 

the  service  of  the  church  have  left  me  as  I 
am.  Your  hand,  brave  Martin  Fulmer ! 
Think  not  that  your  course  has  been  un- 
known to  me  !  You  have  been  watched, — 
your  every  step  marked, — your  very  thought 
recorded, — and  now  it  is  the  Legate  of  the 
Pope,  who  takes  you  by  the  hand,  and  calls 
you  b}''  a  title,  which  it  is  beyond  the  power 
of  Pope  or  King  to  create, — an  Iwnest  man!. 
Twenty  times  I  have  been  near  you  in  the 
course  of  twenty-one  years, — once  in  Paris, 
when  you  were  there  on  business  of  the 
estate, — once  in  Mexico, — once  in  China, — 
once  on  the  Ocean, — once  in  Rome  !  How 
my  heart  yearned  to  disclose  myself  to  you! 
But  I  left  you  go  your  way,  and  now  at  the 
end  of  twenty-one  years,  we  stand  face  to 
face.  And  thou,  my  child, — "  he  gazed 
tenderly  into  the  face  of  the  girl,  whose 
eyes  were  upraised  to  meet  his  own, — "  my 
beautiful !  my  own  !  Think  not  that  the 
garment  of  the  priest,  chills  the  heart  of  the 
father  !" 

"  Father !"  she  whispered,  putting  her 
hands  upon  his  shoulder, — "  how  my  heart 
yearned  to  you,  when  I  first  met  you,  in  the 
dark  streets, — when  friendless  and  homeless, 
I  was  flying  to  the  river,  as  my  only  friendl" 

It  was  a  touching  picture, — the  priest,  who 
for  twenty-one  years,  had  never  permitted 
his  heart  to  throb  with  one  pulse  that  would 
remind  him  of  the  word  "  Home,"  and  the 
daughter,  who,  educated  to  serve  the  dark 
purposes  of  Tarleton,  had  never  before  felt 
her  heart  bound  at  the  sight  of  her  Father's 
face. 

Martin  Fulmer's  face  grew  sad, — 

"  Do  you  r(3gret  my  return  ?"  said  the 
Legate  with  a  smile. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  Martin,  and  his 
soul  was  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke, — "  I  was 
thinking  of — Rome  !" 

Godlike  stepped  forward,  with  a  smile  on 
his  somber  visage, — "  Rome  !"  he  echoed, — 
**  of  course,  now  that  the  dead  has  returned 
to  life,  the  heirs  need  not  think  of  dividing 
the  estate.  And  you  as  priest  of  the  Roman 
Church,  as  one  of  her  lords,  can  think  of  but 
one  disposition  of  your  immense  property. 
It  will  go  to  the  church, — to  Rome  ! " 

"  To  Rome  !"  echoed  Israel  Yorke.  Ran- 
dolph, with  his  face  from  the  light,  did  not 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEAHS. 


277 


Bcem  to  hear  a  word  that  was  spoken.  And 
Martin  Fidmer,  with  his  finger  on  his  lips, 
awaited  in  evident  suspense,  the  answer  of 
the  Legate. 

"  To  Rome  !"  echoed  the  Legate  and  dis^ 
engaging  himself  from  the  arms  of  his 
daughter,  he  stood  erect.  His  entire  face 
changed.  His  nostrils  quivered,  his  lips 
curled,  there  was  a  glow  on  his  pale  cheek, 
and  an  intenser  fire  in  his  eyes.  He  passed 
his  hand  over  his  forehead,  and  brushing 
back  his  dark  hair,  stood  for  a  moment,  mo- 
tionless as  a  statue,  his  eyes  fixed,  as  though 
he  saw  passing  before  his  soul,  a  panorama 
of  the  future. 

**  Within  that  brutal  Rome  which  plants 
its  power  upon  human  skulls,  there  is  a 
higher,  mightier  Rome  !  Within  that  order 
which  uses  and  profanes  the  name  of  Jesus, 
as  the  instrument  of  its  frauds,  there  is  a 
higher,  mightier  Order  of  Jesus  !  I  see  this 
mightier  church, — I  see  this  mightier  Order 
moving  onward,  through  the  paths  of  the 
future,  combating  the  false  Rome,  and 
trampling  under  foot  the  false  Order  of  Jesus! 
Yes,  in  the  future,  I  see  armed  for  the  last 
battle,  those  friends  of  humanity,  who  have 
sworn  to  use  the  Roman  Church  as  the  in- 
strument of  Human  Progress,  or  to  drive 
forward  the  movement  over  her  ruins." 

The  effect  of  these  words,  coupled  with 
the  look  and  the  attitude  of  the  Legate,  was 
electric.  They  were  followed  by  a  dead 
stillness.  The  spectators  gazed  into  each 
other's  faces,  but  no  one  ventured  to  break 
the  silence. 

The  silence  was  interrupted,  however,  by 
a  strange  voice,— 

"Lor  brass  you,  massa,  de  nigga  hab  ar- 
ribe !"  It  was  Old  Royal,  who  emerged 
from  the  curtains,  with  a  broad  grin  on  his 
black  face, — "You  know  dis  nigga  war  on 
de  ribber  in  a  boat,  fetchin  ober  from  Jarscy 
shore,  a  brack  gemman  who  didn'  like  to 
trabel  by  de  ferry  boat — yah — whah  !  Well 
de  nigga  did  it, — 

He  advanced  a  step, — passed  his  hand 
through  his  white  wool, — surveyed  his  giant- 
like form  clad  in  sleek  broadcloth, — showed 
his  white  teeth,  and  continued,  with  an 
accent  and  a  gesticulation  that  words  cannot 
describe — 

"  Well,  as  we  come  across, — lor-a-massy 


how  de  storm  did  storm,  and  do  snow  did 
snow  !  As  wo  come  across,  dis  nigga  cotchcd 
by  de  bar  ob  his  head,  a  young  white  geinman, 
who  war  a-drownin'.  An'  dis  same  young 
white  gemman,  Massa  Fuhner, — "  he  pointed 
over  his  shoulder,  "  am  out  dar  1" 

"What  mean  you.  Royal  ?"  cried  Martin 
Fulmer,  and  he  shook  with  the  confiict  of 
hope  and  suspense, — "  whom  did  you  res- 
cue ?" 

"  Dar's  de  white  pusson,"  said  Old  Royal. 

Leaning  on  the  arm  of  Mary  Berman, 
whose  face  was  rosy  with  joy,  whose  bonnet 
had  fallen  on  her  neck,  while  her  hair, 
glittering  with  suow-drops,  strayed  over  her 
shoulders, — leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  wife. 
Nameless,  or  Carl  Raphael,  came  through 
the  doorway,  and  advanced  toward  the 
group. 

He  was  clad  in  black,  which  threw  his 
pale  face,  shaded  by  brown  hair,  boldly  into 
view.  His  eyes  were  clear  and  brilliant ; 
his  lip  firm.  As  he  advanced,  every  eye  re- 
marked the  resemblance  between  him  and 
the  Legate  ;  and  also  between  him,  and  the 
disguised  girl,  who  stood  by  the  Legate's 
side. 

"  Rescued  from  death  by  the  hands  of  this 
good  friend, — "  his  voice  was  clear  and  bold, 
"  I  returned  home,  and  found  the  note  which 
you, — "  he  looked  at  Martin  Fulmer,  "caused 
to  be  left  there.  And  in  obedience  to  the 
request  contained  in  that  note,  I  am  here." 

At  first  completely  thunderstruck,  the 
venerable  man  had  not  power  to  frame  a 
word. 

"Fatality!"  he  cried  at  last,  "but  a  blessed 
fatality  !  I  knew  that  Providence  would  not 
desert  us  !  Come  to  my  heart,  my  child  1 
Carl, — "  trembling  with  emotion,  he  took 
Nameless  by  the  hand,  "  Carl,  behold  your 
father,  who,  after  a  lapse  of  twenty-one  years 
has  appeared  among  us,  like  one  risen  from 
the  grave  1  Behold  your  sister,  born  like 
3^ou,  in  your  mother's  death-agony, — sepa- 
rated from  you  for  twenty-one  years, — sho 
now  rejoins  you,  in  presence  of  your  fa- 
ther !" 

It  was  now  the  turn  of  Nameless  to  stand 
spell-bound  and  thunderstruck.  He  stood 
like  one  in  a  dream,  until  the  voices  of  the 
Legate  and  the  young  girl  broke  on  his  ear 
voices  so  like  his  own. 


278 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


"  My  son  !" 
"Brother!" 

He  was  gathered  to  the  Legate's  breast, 
who  kissed  him  on  the  brow,  anil  surveying 
every  line  of  his  face,  felt  his  bosom  swell 
with  pride  as  he  called  him,  "  my  son !" 
Then  his  sister's  arms  were  upon  his  neck, 
and  Nameless,  as  he  saw  her  face,  so  touch- 
ing, in  its  quiet  loveliness,  felt  his  heart 
swell  with  a  rapture,  never  felt  before,  as  he 
found  himself  encircled  in  that  atmosphere 
which  is  most  like  heaven, — the  atmosphere 
of  a  sister's  love. 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  son,"  said  the  Legate, 
as  he  took  Nameless  by  the  hand,  and  his 
eyes  lit  up  with  a  new  fire,  while  in  abrupt 
and  broken  sentences,  he  poured  forth  the 
story  of  his  life.  His  tone  was  impassioned, 
his  words  electric.  Carl  Raphael  listened, 
while  the  emotions  of  his  soul,  were  written 
in  his  changing  features. 

"And  now,  my  son,"  concluded  the  Le- 
gate, as  he  put  his  arm  about  the  neck  of 
Nameless,  "  twenty-one  years  are  gone,  and 
I  appear  again.  The  estate,  from  two  mil- 
lions, has  swelled  into  one  hundred  millions. 
You  will  inherit  it,  and  you  and  I,  and  this 
good  man,  will  join  together,  in  applying  the 
awful  power  embodied  in  this  wealth,  to  the 
best  interests  of  the  human  race." 

To  the  surprise  of  the  Legate,  Nameless 
unwound  his  arm  from  his  neck,  and  stepped 
back  from  him.  His  face  suddenly  became 
cold  and  rigid  as  stone.  Rising  in  every 
inch  of  his  stature,  he  surveyed  the  entire 
scene  at  a  rapid  glance. 

On  his  right,  his  father  and  sister.  Near 
hini  the  venerable  old  man,  with  Mary  by 
his  side.  Somewhat  apart,  stood  the  somber 
Godlike,  and  the  weaz el-faced  Yorke.  In 
the  background,  the  table,  with  the  candles 
burning  dimly  rouiul  over  chest  and  coffin. 
Around  him  that  hall,  thick  on  every  panel 
with  the  memories  of  the  past ;  and  far  in 
the  shadows,  the  white  image  of  the  mas- 
ter. 

And  by  yonder  window,  his  form  half 
concealed  in  the  curtains,  Randolph  looks 
out  upon  the  black  night. 

Dilating  with  an  emotion  which  was  in- 
comprehensible to  the  spectators.  Nameless 
said  . 

**  No,  father,  I  will  not  touch  one  dollar  of 


this  wealth.    It  is  accursed.    Look  at  the 

passion  it  has  evoked ;  look  at  the  calamities 
which  it  has  wrought !    It  is  accursed, — 
thrice  accursed.    It  was  this  wealth  which 
impelled  your  own  brother  to  attempt  to 
corrupt  my  mother.     It  was  this  wealL?^ 
which  made  that  brother  follow  me  with 
I  remorseless  hatred,  and  to-night,  for  the  sake 
'  of  this,  he  planned  my  death.    It  was  this 
I  wealth  which  drove  you  from  your  native 
j  land,  there  to  bury  all  feeling  in  a  church, 
which  makes  marriage  a  sacrament,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  prevents  her  priests  from  ever 
enjoying  that  sacrament,  from  ever  being 
hailed  b}^  the  all-holy  names  of  '  husband  ! ' 
'  father  !'     There   you  buried  twenty-one 
years  of  your  life,  leaving  your  children  to 
breast  the  storm  of  life  alone.    It  was  this 
wealth  which  cast  me,  in  childhood,  into 
the  streets,  without  friend  or  home, — and  do 
you  know  the  life  I've  lived  ?    While  you 
were  saying  mass  at  Rome,  I  was  committing 
murder,  father, — I  was  being  sentenced  to 
death, — I  was  buried  alive  in  your  family 
vault, — I  was  passing  two  years  in  a  mad- 
man's cell !     Look  at  the  work  of  your 
wealth  !  Let  these  gentlemen  (who,  I  doubt 
not,  have  been  heirs  of  this  estate  in  anti- 
cipation,) let  them  speak,  and  tell  what  pas- 
sions, like  fiends  evoked  from  nethermost 
hell,  this  wealth  has  summoned  into  life  ! 
Speak,  Martin  Fulmer,  you,  who  for  twenty- 
one  years,  have  denied  yourself  the  blessing 
of  wife,  home,  children  ;  while  in  sleepless 
anguish  you  watched  over  this  wealth, — 
speak  !    What  evil  thought  is  there  in  earth 
or  hell  which  it  has  not  called  into  deeds  ? 
No, — father, — lifting  this  hand  to  heaven,  I 
swear  by  that  mother,  whom  you  left  to 
writhe  alone  upon  her  dying  bed,  that  I  will 
not  touch  one  dollar  of  the  Van  Huyden 
estate  !" 

The  Legate,  that  is  to  say,  Gulian  Van 
Huyden,  was  crushed  by  these  words  ;  they 
fell  upon  him  like  a  sentence  of  death. 

"My  son!  my  son!"  he  gasped,  "spare 
me  !" 

"  '  Son '  and  '  father,'  are  words  easily  spo- 
ken," continued  Nameless.  "Have  you  been 
a  father  to  me  ?  It  would  be  very  striking, 
and  altogether  like  the  fifth  act  of  a  melo- 
drama, no  doubt,  for  me  to  overlook  your 
twenty-one  years  of  silence,  and  with  love 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


279 


and  tears  consent  to  be  your  heir.  But  you 
liave  not  been  my  father.  My  father, — 
the  father  of  my  soul, — Cornelius  Berman, 
lies  a  corpse  to-night.  I  forgive  you,  father, 
but  I  cannot  forget,  for  I  am  not  the  Savior ; 
I  am  simply  a  man — " 

"  Have  you  no  mercy  ?"  faltered  the  Le- 
gate, -who  stood  in  the  presence  of  his  son 
like  a  criminal  before  his  judge.  "Do  you 
not  know  your  words  are  killing  me  ?" 

But  Carl  Raphael,  as  though  all  that  was 
dark  in  his  own  life,  all  that  was  dark  in  his 
mother's  death-hour,  held  possession  of  his 
soul,  would  not  give  his  father  one  chance  of 
justification. 

"  A  man,  father,  who  has  known  so  much 
suffering,  that  he  now  only  desires  to  forget 
the  real  world,  in  the  ideal  world  created  by 
his  own  pencil ;  who  only  desires  to  turn 
his  back  upon  wealth  and  all  its  hatreds,  and 
win  his  bread  humbly,  and  away  from  the 
world,  by  the  toil  of  his  hand.  Mary  ! — thou 
who  wast  true  to  me,  when  I  slept  in  the 
cofiSn, — thou  who  wast  true  to  me  when  I  was 
the  tenant  of  a  madman's  cell,  —  Mary  ! 
come,  let  us  go." 

While  the  spectators  stood  like  statues, — 
all,  save  Randolph,  who,  with  his  face  from 
the  light,  took  no  notice  of  the  scene, — he 
took  Mary  by  the  hand,  and  moved  toward 
the  door. 

With  one  voice,  his  father,  his  sister,  Mar- 
tin Fulmer,  called  him  back. 

"  Carl !  Carl !  you  must  not  go  !" 
"  My  son  !  my  son  !" 
"  Brother  !" 

He  lingered  on  the  threshold,  holding  his 
beautiful  wife  by  the  hand. 

"  Father  !  sister !  brave  Martin  Fulmer  ! 
come  and  see  me  in  my  poor  man's  home, 
and  I  will  bless  you  from  my  heart  for  your 
presence.  Come  !  come, — but  not  to  tempt 
me  with  the  offer  of  wealth ;  that  word 
spoken,  and  we  are  strangers  forever.  For  my 
oath  is  sworn,  by  the  name  of  my  mother, 
never  to  touch  one  dollar  of  the  Yan  Huyden 
estate,  and  that  oath  is  written  up  yonder !" 

With  these  words,  Carl  Raphael,  son  of 
Gulian  Van  Huyden,  and  heir  of  One  Hun- 
dred Million  Dollars,  took  Mary  by  the  hand, 
and  passed  from  the  banquet-hall,  and  from 
the  house  in  which,  twenty-one  years  before. 
His  mother  died. 
16 


EPILOGUE. 
I 

ON  THE  OCEAN, — BY  THE  RIVER  SHORE, — ISt 
THE  VATICAN,  ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

My  task  is  almost  done.  This  work  \yas 
commenced  in  January,  184:&, — it  is  now 
June,  1852.  Four  years  that  have  been  of 
awful  moment  to  the  great  world,  and  that, 
to  many  of  you  my  readers,  have  brought 
change,  affliction — have  stripped  you  of 
those  whose  life  was  a  part  of  your  life,  and 
made  your  pathway  rich  only  in  graves. 
Four  years  !  As  I  am  about  to  lay  aside  the 
pen,  and  shut  the  pages  of  this  book,  those 
four  years  start  up  before  me,  in  living 
shape  ;  they  wear  familiar  faces  ;  they  speak 
with  voices  that  never  shall  be  heard  on 
earth  again. 

Before  the  curtain  falls,  let  us  take  a  glance 
at  the  characters  of  our  history. 

Harry  Royalton.  He  did  not  die  under 
his  brother's  hands,  but  returned  to  Hill 
Royal,  where  he  drank,  and  gambled,  and 
talked  "secession,"  until  a  kindly  bullet, 
from  the  pistol  of  an  antagonist  in  a  duel, 
relieved  him  of  the  woes  of  this  life. 

Randolph  Royalton  was  never  seen  in 
New  York,  after  the  25th  of  December, 
1844.  It  is  supposed  that,  aided  by  Martin 
Fulmer,  he  went  abroad,  accompanied  by 
his  sister,  the  beautiful  Esther. 

In  January,  1845,  Bernard  Lynn,  com- 
pletely broken  down  in  health  and  appear- 
ance, returned,  with  his  daughter,  to  Europe. 
He  died  soon  afterward  in  Florence.  Elea- 
nor, it  has  been  rumored,  committed  the 
moral  suicide  of  burying  her  life  in  a  con- 
vent. But  let  us  hope,  that  Eleanor,  as  well 
as  Esther,  will  once  more  appear  in  active 
life. 

Israel  Yorke  still  flourishes  ;  the  devil  is 
good  to  his  children.  Godlike,  we  believe, 
is  yet  upon  the  stage.  And  the  apostolic 
Ishmael  Ghoul,  still  conducts  the  Daily 
Blaze,  waxing  fat  and  strong,  in  total  deprav- 
ity. As  for  Sleevegammon,  his  competitor 
for  public  favor,  he  still  see-saws  on  the  tight 
rope,  with  Conservatism  on  one  side,  and 
Progress  on  the  other.  Blossom,  the  police- 
man, has  retired  from  active  life,  and  now 
does  a  great  deal  of  nothing,  for  three  dol- 
lars a  day,  in  the  Custom-House.    Dr.  Bui- 


280 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


gin  still  thrives  ;  he  lately  published  a  book 
of  345  pages,  as  big  as  his  own  head  almost, 
against  "  Socialism."  We  have  not  been  in- 
formed whether  any  monument  of  marble, 
with  an  obelisk  and  an  epitaph,  has  been 
erected  in  memory  of  the  martyred  "  Blood- 
hound." 

Before  we  close  our  task,  we  will  gaze 
upon  four  scenes ;  one  of  which  took  place 
on  the  ocean  ;  another,  by  the  shore  of  Hud- 
son river ;  a  third,  in  the  Vatican,  at  Rome  ; 
the  fourth  and  last,  upon  the  boundless 
prairie. 

*****       *  * 

It  was  in  January,  1845. 

One  winter  night,  when  the  wind  was  bit- 
ter cold  in  New  York,  and  the  snow  lay 
white  upon  the  hills  of  the  northern  land, 
there  was  a  brave  ship  resting  motionless 
upon  the  ocean,  not  under  a  wintery  sky,  but 
under  a  summer  sky,  and  in  an  atmosphere 
soft  and  bland  as  June.  On  her  way  from 
New  York  to  the  West  Indies,  she  had  been 
becalmed.  She  lay  under  the  starlit  sky, 
with  her  image  mirrored  in  every  detail, 
upon  the  motionless  sea.  All  at  once  another 
light  than  the  pale  beams  of  the  stars,  flashed 
over  the  smooth  expanse,  and  a  pyramid  of 
flame  rose  grandly  into  the  sky.  The  ship 
was  on  fire  ;  in  less  than  two  hours  the  flame 
died  away,  and  in  place  of  the  brave  ship, 
there  was  a  blackened  wreck  upon  the 
waters.  All  that  escaped  from  the  wreck 
were  six  souls ;  the  captain,  three  of  the 
crew,  and  two  passengers.  Upon  a  hastily 
constructed  raft,  with  but  a  scanty  supply  of 
bread  and  water,  behold  them,  as  they  float 
alone  upon  the  trackless  ocean.  For  three 
days,  without  a  breath  of  air  to  fan  the 
smooth  expanse,  they  floated  under  a  burn- 
ing sun,  in  sight  of  the  wreck,  and  on  the 
evening  of  the  third  day,  they  shared  the 
last  crust  of  bread,  and  passed  from  lip  to  lip 
the  last  can  of  water.  It  was  on  the  evening 
of  the  fourth  day,  that  the  captain,  a  brave 
old  seaman,  driven  mad  by  the  burning  sun 
and  intolerable  thirst,  leaped  overboard,  and 
died,  without  a  single  effort  on  the  part  of 
his  companions  to  save  him.  His  example 
was  followed  by  a  sailor,  an  old  tar,  who  had 
followed  him  over  half  the  globe.  Thus, 
there  remained  upon  the  raft  four  persons  ; 
two  passengers  and  two  sailors. 


It  was  the  evening  of  the  fifth  day, — five 
days  under  the  burning  sun, — two  days  and 
nights  without  water ! 

The  sun  was  setting.  Like  a  globe  of  red 
hot  metal,  he  hung  on  the  verge  of  the  hori- 
zon, shooting  his  fiery'' rays  through  a  thin 
purple  haze. 

The  wreck  had  gone  down,  and  the  raft 
was  alone  upon  the  motionless  ocean. 

The  sailors  were  seated  near  each  other, 
on  the  side  of  the  raft  most  remote  from  the 
sun, — they  were  dressed  in  a  coarse  shirt 
and  trowsers, — and  with  their  hands  resting 
on  their  knees,  and  their  faces  upon  their 
hands,  they  seemed  to  have  surrendered 
themselves  to  their  fate,  —  that  is,  to  de- 
spair and  death,  by  starvation. 

The  passengers  were  on  the  other  side  of 
the  raft ;  one  of  them  was  a  man  of  slender 
form,  dressed  in  dark  broadcloth ;  his  head 
was  buried  in  his  hands,  and  the  setting  sun 
shone  on  his  hair,  which,  sleek  and  brown 
lay  behind  his  ears.  Beside  him,  in  a  reclin- 
ing posture,  was  the  other  passenger,  a  wo- 
man ;  a  woman  who  had  escaped  from  the 
burning  vessel  in  her  night-clothes,  and  who 
now,  with  the  cloak  of  the  man  spread  beneath 
her,  turns  her  dark  eyes  hopelessly  to  the 
setting  sun.  A  few  days  ago,  with  her  proud 
bosom,  and  rounded  limbs,  and  dark  eyes 
flashing  from  that  face,  whose  clear,  brown 
complexion  indicated  her  Spanish  descent, 
she  was  very  beautiful.  Look  at  her  now. 
Livid  circles  beneath  each  eye,  lips  parched, 
cheeks  hollow, — her  bosom  is  bare, — shrunk- 
en from  its  once  voluptuous  outline,  it  trem- 
bles with  a  faint  pulsation.  Five  days  have 
made  terrible  havoc  of  your  beauty,  proud 
Godiva ! 

The  man  by  her  side  raises  his  head  from 
his  hands, — in  that  sallow  face,  lack-luster 
eyes,  and  hollowed  cheeks,  can  you  recog- 
nize the  smooth,  fair  visage  of  Herman 
Barnhurst  ?  Alas  !  Herman,  your  prospect  of 
a  West  Indian  paradise,  with  Godiva  for  the 
queen  of  your  houris,  is  rather  dim  just  now. 

And  the  sky  was  above  them,  the  track- 
less sea  all  around,  the  last  rays  of  the  red 
sun  in  their  faces  ;  and  not  a  sail  in  sight. 
Scan  the  horizon,  Herman,  and  in  vain. 

"  0  !  it  is  horrible  to  die  thus,"  exclaimed 
Godiva,  in  a  voice  so  faint  as  to  be  scarcely 
audible. 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


281 


But  Herman  made  no  reply. 

And  as  the  sailors  raised  their  eyes, — wild 
and  fiery  from  thirst  and  hunger, — the  sun 
went  down,  and  night  came  at  once  upon 
the  scene. 

"  How  beautiful  they  are, — the  stars  up 
yonder,  Herman  !" 

Still  Herman  did  not  reply. 

Godiva,  resting  one  arm  upon  his  knee,  fell 
into  a  brief  slumber,  which  was  broken  by 
the  most  incongruous  dreams.  At  length 
her  dreams  resolved  themselves  into  a  view 
of  Niagara  Falls,  that  world  of  waters,  sing- 
ing its  awful  hymn  as  it  plunges  into  the 
abyss.  She  saw  the  cool  water,  her  face  was 
bathed  in  the  spray,  and, — she  awoke  de- 
voured by  maddening  thirst. 

Herman  had  moved  from  her  side  ;  he 
was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  raft,  talking 
■with  the  sailoi*s  in  low  tones.  And  the 
sailors  looked  over  their  shoulders,  with  their 
fiery  eyes,  as  they  conversed  with  Herman. 

Again  she  fell  into  a  doze. — she  was  with 
her  father  this  time,  and  Eugene,  her  first 
love,  by  her  side.  Happy  days  ! — innocent 
girlhood  ! 

She  awoke  with  a  start,  —  Herman  was 
still  with  the  sailors,  conversing  in  low 
tones. 

And  thus  the  short  night  at  the  tropics 
wore  on.  It  was  near  sunrise,  and  yet  very 
dark,  when  Godiva  was  dreaming — dreaming 
of  the  night  when,  yet  a  pure  girl,  she  was 
joined  in  marriage  to  the  brutal  sensualist. 
There  was  the  familiar  parlor, — the  white- 
haired  father,  — the  clergyman,  — her  profli- 
gate husband.  And  the  husband  bore  her 
again  over  the  threshold,  she  struggling  in 
his  loathed  embrace.  In  the  struggle  she 
awoke, — sunrise  was  warm  and  bright  upon 
the  waters, — and  a  fresh  breeze  fanned  her 
burning  cheek.  Over  her  stood  Herman,  his 
right  hand  upraised,  —  the  knife  which  it 
grasped  glittering  in  the  sun. 

"  The  lot  has  fallen  on  me  !"  he  cried. 

"Herman!"  she  shrieked  —  and  spread 
forth  her  hands.  Too  late  !  The  knife  was 
buried  in  her  bosom.  "  Woman  you  must 
die  to  save  our  lives  !" 

Godiva  never  saw  anything  in  this  world, 
after  that  blow,  which  was  followed  by  a 
stream  of  blood. 

"  Come  !    Let  us  drink  !"  shouted  Her- 


man to  the  sailors,  his  eyes  rolling  all  wild 
and  mad. 

Onl}'  one  of  the  sailors  came  and  joined 
him,  in  that  loathsome  draught.  In  the 
sunken  features  of  the  poor  wretch,  you  but 
faintly  recognize — Arthur  Conroy. 

The  third  sailor,  rose  trembling  to  his  feet, 
— his  cheeks  hollowed  and  his  eyes  sunken 
like  the  others.  He  folded  his  arms,  and 
surveyed  the  three, — the  body  of  Godiva, 
with  Herman  and  Conroy  bending  over  her. 

And  then  the  third  sailor,  with  his  great 
eyes  flashing  in  their  sockets,  burst  into  a 
maniac  laugh,  and  cried,  —  "A  sail!  A 
sail !" 

The  third  sailor  was  Arthur  Dermoyne. 

Loathsome  as  was  the  draught  which  they 
took,  it  assuaged  their  thirst,  and  for  a  time 
stilled  the  madness  in  their  veins.  It  was, 
therefore,  with  a  vision  somewhat  clear,  that 
Herman  and  Conroy  looked  up,  and  beheld 
a  white  sail  breaking  the  monotony  of  the 
waste. 

They  turned  from  the  body  of  the  dead 
woman  with  loathing.  *  *  *  The 
sail  grew  nearer,  nearer  !  A  signal !  "  They 
are  lowering  a  boat,"  cried  Herman,  "we 
shall  be  saved  !" 

"  This  is  the  very  time  of  all  others  that 
I  wished  to  see,"  said  Dermoyne,  in  that 
husky  and  unnatural  voice, — "  your  hands 
are  stained  with  the  blood  of  your  paramour, 
— your  heart  beats  with  joy  at  the  sight  of 
a  sail, — now  go  !"  And  he  pushed  Hermaa 
from  the  raft,  and  struck  him  on  the  hands, 
with  the  hilt  of  the  knife,  as  the  miserable 
man  clutched  the  timbers. 

"  Mercy  !"  cried  Herman,  again  clutching 
the  raft. 

Again  Dermoyne  struck  his  hands  with 
the  hilt  of  the  knife. 

"  Go  !    Alice  waits  for  you  !" 

When  the  boat  from  the  ship  came  up, 
the  crew  found  two  men  stretched  insensible 
upon  the  raft,  beside  the  body  of  a  dead 
woman.  As  for  Herman,  he  had  sunk  from 
sight. 

******* 
It  w^as  J une,  in  the  year  1848  — 
The  flush  of  the  summer  evening,  lay 
broad  and  warm  upon  the  river,  when  an 
old  man  came  from  the  cottage  door,  and 
passing  through  the  garden  gate,  bent  hia 


282 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


steps  toward  the  oak,  which,  standing  by  the 
shore,  caught  upon  its  rugged  trunk  and 
Avide-branching  limbs,  the  golden  rays  of  the 
setting  sun. 

He  stood  there,  with  uncovered  brow,  the 
breeze  tossing  his  snow-white  hairs,  and  the 
evening  flush  warming  over  his  venerable 
face.  By  his  side,  grasping  his  hand,  was  a 
boy  of  some  three  years,  with  a  glad,  happy 
face,  and  sunny  hair. 

Before  the  old  man  and  child  spread  the 
river,  warm  with  golden  light,  and  white 
with  sails.  Yonder  the  palisades  rose  up 
into  the  evening  sky  ;  and  behind  them, 
was  the  cottage,  leaning  against  the  cliff, 
with  boughs  above  its  steep  roof,  vines  about 
its  pointed  windows,  and  before  its  door  a 
garden,  from  whose  beds  of  flowers  a  cool 
fountain  sent  up  its  drops  of  spray,  into  the 
evening  air.  The  cottage  of  Cornelius  Ber- 
man,  just  as  it  was  in  other  days. 

Presently  the  father  and  the  mother  of 
the  child  came  from  the  garden  gate,  and 
approached  the  oak.  A  man  of  twenty-five 
years,  with  head  placed  firmly  on  his  shoul- 
ders, and  a  face  whose  clear  gray  eyes,  and 
forehead  shaded  by  brown  hair,  indicate  the 
artist,  the  man  of  genius, — a  woman  who 
may  be  seventeen,  who  may  be  twenty,  but 
whose  rounded  forni  and  pure  loifely  face, 
link  together  the  freshness  of  the  maiden, 
the  ripe  maturity  of  the  woman. 

Beside'  the  young  wife,  walks  a  young 
woman,  whose  form  is  not  so  full  and  rounded 
in  its  beauty,  but  whose  pale  face,  tinted 
with  bloom  on  the  lips  and  cheek,  is  lighted 
by  eyes  that  gleam  with  a  sad,  spiritual 
light  Altogether,  a  face  that  touches  you 
with  its  melancholy  beauty,  and  compares 
with  the  face  of  the  wife,  as  a  calm  starlit 
night,  with  a  rosy  summer  morn. 

It  is  Carl  Raphael,  his  wife,  Mary,  and  his 
sister,  now  called  Alice,  who  come  to  join 
old  Martin  Fulmer  on  the  river  bank.  De- 
clining to  touch  one  dollar  of  the  Van 
Huyden  estate,  and  determined  to  earn  his 
bread  by  the  toil  of  his  hand,  Carl  still  had 
fortune  thrust  upon  him, — for  Mary  was  the 
only  heir  of  the  merchant  prince,  Evelyn 
Somers. 

"  Doctor,  I  have  a  letter  from  father,  who 
is  now  in  Rome,"  said  Carl,  a.s  he  stood  by 
the  old  man's  side, — and  he  placed  the  letter  j 


from  his  father,  the  Legate,  in  Martin  Ful- 
mer's  hand. 

Martin  seized  the  letter,  and  reading  it 
eagerly,  his  eye  brightening  up  with  the  light 
of  the  olden  time — 

"  Ah,  Carl,  he  will  soon  return,  he  will  at 
last  relieve  me  of  the  care  of  the  Van  Huy- 
den estate  !  See  how  hopefully  he  speaks 
of  the  cause  of  humanity  in  Europe,  —  in 
February,  the  people  of  France  cast  off  their 
chains, — now  Italy  is  awake,  and  men  with 
the  soul  of  Rienzi  and  the  sword  of  Wash- 
ington, direct  her  destinies, — the  Pope,  soon 
to  be  stripped  of  his  temporal  power,  will  be 
no  longer  the  tool  of  brutal  tyrants,  the  pri- 
soner of  atheist  cardinals,  but  simply  the 
Head  of  a  regenerated  people,  simply  the 
first  Priest  of  a  redeemed  church.  Glorious 
news,  Carl ;  glorious  news  for  us,  in  this  free 
land  ;  for  say  what  we  will,  Rome  is  a  heart 
which  never  throbs,  but  that  its  pulsations 
are  felt  throughout  the  world," 

"  How  can  Rome  directly  affect  tis.  Doc 
tor  ?»' 

"  If  the  absolutist  party  in  that  church,— 
the  party  who  regard  Christ  but  as  their 
stepping-stone  to  unrestrained  and  brutal 
power, — obtain  the  mastery,  then,  Carl,  the 
last  battle  between  that  party  and  humanity, 
will  be  fought  not  in  Europe,  but  in  this 
New  World.  Is  there  a  hill  in  this  land,  but 
is  trod  by  a  soldier  of  Rome  ?  But  if  the 
party  of  Progress  in  that  church, — the  party 
who  believe  in  Christ,  and  hold  the  Gospels 
as  the  inspired  text-book  of  Democratic 
truth, — obtain  the  ascendency,  then,  instead 
of  having  to  battle  with  the  Catholic  Church, 
in  this  New  W^orld,  the  friends  of  humanity 
will  find  in  it,  their  strongest  ally.  Good 
news,  Carl !  The  Pope,  the  Washington  of 
Italy  !" 

To  which  Carl, — happy  in  that  little  world 
of  his  own,  where  he  lived  with  his  wife 
and  child,  afar  from  the  great  world, — said 
simply  : — 

"  Martin,  let  us  wait  and  see." 
*        j(c        *        *        *        *  ♦ 

Some  months  after  the  conversation  just 
recorded,  a  very  brief  scene,  but  full  of  in- 
terest took  place  in  Rome. 

Let  us  pass  for  a  little  while  from  tho 
Empire  City  to  the  Eternal  City. 

In  one  of  the  chambers  of  the  Vatican, 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


283 


late  at  night,  a  lamp  was  faintly  burning, 
its  rays  struggling  among  the  thick  shadows 
which  hung  about  the  lofty  walls.  Through 
an  open  window  came  a  dim,  ominous  mur- 
mur,—  the  voice  of  the  arisen  people  of 
Rome. 

A  man  of  some  fifty  years,  whose  black 
hair  was  plentifully  sprinkled  with  gray, 
paced  up  and  down  the  marble  floor,  pausing 
every  now  and  then  before  a  door,  in  the 
center  of  the  chamber,  to  which  he  directed 
his  earnest  gaze.  Behind  that  door  was  the 
majesty  of  the  Roman  Church,  'the  repre- 
sentative of  God  on  earth' — the  Pope  of 
Rome. 

And  the  solitary  watcher,  dressed  in  the 
plain  garb  of  a  simple  ecclesiastic,  was  the 
Legate  who  had  done  the  bidding  of  the 
Pontiff  over  half  the  globe,  —  the  Legate, 
Gulian  Van  Huyden. 

"  Will  he  turn  his  back  upon  the  people,  and 
cast  himself  into  the  hands  of  the  tyrants  ? 
Will  he,  after  his  hand  has  grasped  the 
plow  of  Human  Progress,  falter  and  turn 
back,  and  give  the  power  of  the  church  into 
the  hands  of  the  Iscariots  of  the  human 
race  ?   Can  there  be  any  truth  in  the  rumor  ?" 

And  again  he  paused  before  the  door,  be- 
hind which  was  the  chamber  which  held  the 
sovereign  Pontiff. 

That  door  opened, — the  Pope  appeared. 
Clad  not  in  the  gorgeous  costume  which  he 
wears,  when  high  upon  his  throne,  he  is 
carried  by  his  guards,  through  thousands  and 
tens  of  thousands  of  his  kneeling  worship- 
ers ;  but  clad  in  a  loose  robe  or  gown  of 
dark  silk,  which,  thrown  open  in  front,  dis- 
closes his  bared  neck  and  disordered  attire. 
For  with  his  mild  countenance,  —  a  counte- 
nance marked  by  irresolution,  —  displaying 
every  sign  of  perturbation,  this  "  representa- 
tive of  God  on  earth,"  wears  very  much  the 
air  of  one  who  is  about  to  fly  from  a  falling 
house. 

"There  can  be  no  truth  in  this  rumor, 
which  I  hear,"  and  the  Legate  steps  forward 
almost  fiercely,  addressing  the  Pope  without 
one  word  of  "  majesty,"  or  **  holiness,"  — 
"  this  Tumor  of  flight  ?" 

It  is  in  a  soft  and  tremulous^  voice,  (in 
Italian  of  course,)  the  Pope  replies, — 

"  If  I  stay,  poison  threatens  me  from  above, 
the  dagger  from  below."  i 


And  then  with  a  gesture,  supplicating 
silence  and  secrecy  on  the  part  of  the  Legate, 
the  Pope  retires  and  closes  the  door. 

"  Significant  words  !  Poison  threatens 
him  from  above,  —  from  the  cardinals,  —  the 
dagger  from  below, — from  the  people.  The 
danger  from  the  cardinals  is  not  imaginary — 
there  was  once  a  Pope  named  Ganganelli, 
who  suppressed  the  Jesuits,  and  in  less  than 
three  months  died  horribly  of  poison.  But 
the  people,  Pius  ?  0,  Pope  without  nervei, 
without  faith  in  God,  without  hope  in  man, 
know  you  not,  that  were  you  to  fulfill  your 
apostolate  of  Liberty,  the  very  women  and 
children  of  Rome  would,  in  your  defense, 
build  around  you  a  rampart  of  their  dead 
bodies  ?" 

He  walked  to  the  \vindow,  up  to  which 
from  the  sleepless  city,  came  the  voices  of 
arisen  Rome  : 

"  God  help  the  Roman  people  !"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  God  confound  the  schemes  of 
the  tyrants,  who  now  plot  the  murder  of  the 
Roman  people  !  At  last,  after  five  hundred 
years  of  wrong,  the  Nightmare  of  Priesthood 
is  lifted  from  the  breast  of  Italy.  Italy  has 
heard  at  last,  the  voice  of  God,  calling  upon 
her  sons  to  arise — to  cast  these  priestly  idlers 
from  their  thrones — to  assert  the  Democracy 
of  the  Gospel  in  face  of  t}Tants  of  all  shapes, 
whether  dressed  in  military  gear,  in  solemn 
black,  or  in  Borgian  scarlet.  Italy  has 
risen  !" 

And  turning  from  the  window,  he  paced 
the  floor  again, — 

"  My  work  is  done  in  Rome.  The  Pope 
and  the  church  in  the  hands  of  crowned 
and  mitred  miscreants,  who  having  crushed 
the  last  spark  of  liberty  in  the  Old  World, 
will  not  be  long  ere  they  open  their  trenches 
before  her  last  altar  in  the  New  World  ! 
Away  to  the  New  World  then  ;  if  the  battle 
must  come,  let  us,  let  the  friends  of  human- 
ity, strike  the  first  blow  I" 

*       *       *       *       *       *  * 

Away  from  the  eternal  city, — to  the  New 
World, — to  the  boundless  horizon  and  ocean- 
like expanse  of  the  prairies.  The  sun  is 
setting  over  one  of  those  vast  prairies,  which 
stretch  between  the  Mississippi  and  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  The  monotony  of  that  vast 
expanse,  covered  with  grass  that  rolls  and 
swells,  like  the  ware  of  old  ocean,  is  broken 


284 


THE  DAY  OF  TWENTY-ONE  YEARS. 


by  a  gentle  k::oll,  crowned  hy  a  single  giant 
oak.  The  netting  sun  flings  the  shadow  of 
that  solitary  tree,  black  and  long,  over,  the 
prairie.  Far,  far  in  the  west,  a  white  peak 
rises  like  an  altar  from  the  horizon,  into  the 
sky — it  is  a  peak  of  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
And  gazing  to  the  east,  you  behold  nothing 
save  the  prairie  and  the  sky, — yes !  a  herd 
of  buffalo  are  grazing  yonder,  and  a  long 
caravan"  of  wagons,  drawn  by  mules,  and 
flanked  by  armed  men  who  ride  or  go  afoot, 
winds  like  an  immense  serpent,  far  over  the 
plain. 

Three  hundred  emigrants,  mechanics,  their 
wives  and  little  ones,  who  have  left  the 
savage  civilization  of  the  Atlantic  cities,  for 
a  free  home  beyond  the  Rocky  Mountains — 
such  is  the  band  which  now  moves  on  in  the 
light  of  the  fading  day. 

The  leader  of  the  band,  a  man  in  the 
prime  of  young  manhood,  dressed  in  the 
garb  of  a  hunter,  with  a  rifle  on  his  shoulder, 
stands  beneath  the  solirary  oak,  gazing  upon 
the  caravan  as  it  comes  on.  His  face  bears 
traces  of  much  thought, — perchance  of  many 
a  dark  hour, — but  now  his  eyes  shine  clear 


and  strong,  with  the  enthusiasm  which 
springs  from  deep  convictions  : 

"  Thus  far  toward  freedom  !  Here  they 
come, — three  hundred  serfs  of  the  Atlantic 
cities,  rescued  from  poverty,  from  wages- 
slavery,  from  the  war  of  competition,  from  the 
grip  of  the  landlord !  Thus  far  toward  a 
soil  which  they  can  call  their  own ;  thus  far 
toward  a  free  home.  And  thou,  0  !  Christ, 
who  didst  live  and  die,  so  that  all  men 
might  be  brothers,  bless  us,  and  be  with  us, 
and  march  by  our  side,  in  this  our  exodus." 

The  speaker  was  the  Socialist, — Arthur 
Dermoyne. 

And  let  us  all,  as  we  survey  the  masses 
of  the  human  race,  attempting  their  exodus 
from  thraldom  of  all  kinds, — of  the  body, — 
of  the  soul, — from  the  tyranny  which  crushes 
man  by  the  iron  hand  of  brute  force,  or 
slowly  kills  him  by  the  lawful  operation  of 
capital,  labor-saving  machinery,  or  monied 
enterprise, — let  us,  too,  send  up  our  prayer, 
— "0 !  Thou  of  Nazareth,  go  with  the  Peo- 
ple in  this  their  exodus,  dwell  with  them  in 
their  tents,  beacon  with  light,  their  hard  way 
to  the  Promised  Land  !" 


rHE  END. 


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JOURNAL  OF  A  NATURALIST  through  the  inexhaustible  regions 

of  nature   90 

WILD  SCENES  OF  A  HUNTER'S  LIFE.    Containing  adventures 

among  wild  animals,  etc.    300  illustrations   1  60 

YOUNG'S  SCIENCE  OF  GOVERNMENT.  Designed  for  the  use  of 
families  and  schools  ,   1  26 

BORDER  WARS  OF  THE  WEST.  By  Prof.  Frost.  300  illustra- 
tions  2  60 

WHAT  I  SAW  IN  LONDON,  or  Men  and  Things  in  the  great  metro- 
polis  -   1  20 

ELLEN,  or  The  Chained  Mother,  and  pictures  of  Kentucky  slavery 
drawn  from  real  life.    By  Mary  B.  Harlan   1  26 

A  REVIEW  OF  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN,  or  an  Essay  on  Slavery. 
By  A.  Woodward,  M.  D   1  00 

FERN  LEAVES,  from  Fanny's  Portfolio.  With  original  designs  by 
Fred.  M.  Coffin   1  25 

WHAT  I  SAW  IN  NEW  YORK,  or  a  bird's-eye  view  of  city  life. . .  I  20 

SCENES  AT  HOME,  or  Adventures  of  a  Fire-screen   1  00 

DICTIONARY  OF  POPULAR  AND  SELECT  QUOTATIONS  from 
authors  of  every  nation   ,   84 

PURE  GOLD,  or  Truth  in  its  native  loveliness   i  00 


E.  MENDENHALL'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

PICTORIAL  HISTORY  OF  GREECE  $2  00 

GREEK  REVOLUTION.    Compiled  from  official  documents.  Emb. 

sheep   90 

BOTTA'S   HISTORY  OF   THE   AMERICAN  REVOLUTION. 

2  vols,  in  one.    Illustrated   3  00 

FROST'S    PICTORIAL    HISTORY    OF    CALIFORNIA.  An 

account  of  its  immense  Gold  Mines   1  50 

HISTORY  AND  CONDITION  OF  OREGON,  including  a  Voyage 

around  the  World   1  20 

BIOGRAPHICAL  DICTIONARY   1  00 

LIFE   OF  JOHN  WESLEY,  Founder  of  the  Methodist  Society. 

With  a  portrait  of  the  author   76 

LIFE  OF  LUTHER  AND  CROMWELL.    By  Rev.  J.  T.  Headlet.  1  00 
LIVES  OF  THE  SIGNERS  OF  THE  DECLARATION  OF  IN- 
DEPENDENCE.    Illustrated                                                    1  00 

LIFE  OF  WM  PENN.    Beautifully  illustrated  on  tmted  paper,   80 

LIFE  OF  SILAS  WRIGHT   1  60 

LIFE  OF  MARY  AND  MARTHA  WASHINGTON,  the  Mother 

and  Wife  of  Gen.  Washington   84 

LIFE  OF  REV.  ADONAVIM  JUDSON,  of  the  Burman  Mission. 

With  portrait.   1  20 

LIFE  OF  MARY  THE  MOTHER  OF  CHRIST,  with  Introduc- 
tion by  Mrs.  Sigournet  •.   1  20 

LIVES  OF  THE  THREE  MRS.  JUDSONS.    By  Arabella  Stew- 
art.   With  portraits   1  20 

LIFE    OF    CHRIST   AND    HIS   APOSTLES.     Various  styles 

from  ^1  20  to   .        6  00 

LIVES  OF  EMINENT  METHODIST  MINISTERS.    By  Rev.  P. 

Douglas  Gorrie   1  60 

LIFE  OF  GEN.  ZACHARY  TAYLOR,  twelfth  President  of  the 

United  States   1  20 

LIFE  OF  GEN.  FRANKLIN  PIERCE,  fourteenth  President  of  the 

United  States   90 

LIFE  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER   1  50 

LIFE  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS   1  50 

LIFE  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON   60 

LIFE  OF  SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH   60 

LIFE  OF  BARON  TRENCK   50 


E.  MENDENHALL'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

GIFT  BOOK  FOR  YOUNG  MEN,  or  Familiar  Letters  on  self  edu- 
cation   90 

THE  GOLDEN  CHAIN,  or  Links  of  Friendship,  for  the  I.  0.  0.  F., 
the  world  over   1  00 

SENATOR'S  SON,  or  the  Maine  Law  a  last  refuge   1  20 

SARGENT'S  TEMPERANCE  TALES.  A  book  for  every  friend  to 
temperance   1  80 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  POLICEMAN.  By  T.  Waters,  an  Inspec- 
tor of  the  London  Detective  Police   1  00 

NIGHTS  IN  A  BLOCK  HOUSE,  or  Sketches  of  border  life.  Illus- 
trated  2  60 

A  WINTER  IN  MADEIRA,  and  A  Summer  in  Spain  and  Florence. .  1  50 

THE  LADIES'  ORACLE.  An  elegant  pastime  for  social  parties  and 
the  family  circle   1  00 

THE  LADIES'  COMPANION,  or  Sketches  of  Life  of  the  present  day.  1  00 

THE  YOUNG  HUSBAND.    A  manual  of  the  duties  of  married  life.  60 

THE  YOUNG  WIFE.  Manual  of  moral,  religious,  and  domestic 
duties   60 

WOMAN  AND  HER  VARIOUS  RELATIONS.  A  popular  book. 
Illustrated  title   80 

ABBOTT'S  FIRESIDE  PIETY,  or  Duties  and  Enjoyments  of  Reli- 
gion.   Steel  engravings   80 

AUSTRALIA  AND  HER  GOLD  MINES.  A  full  description  of  the 
country  and  guide  to  the  gold  mines,  with  a  description  of  its  geology, 
productions,  etc   80 

THE  NEW  CONTINENT,  or  Four  Years  in  a  Government  Expe- 
dition  1  25 

THE  LAND  OF  CiESAR  AND  DOGE.  Historical,  artistic,  personal, 
and  literary   1  40 

HISTORY  OF  THE  MEXICAN  WAR,  from  its  origin  to  the  treaty 
of  peace   1  25 

ROMANCE  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY?  or  Wild  Scenes  and  wild 
Hunters   3  00 

A  CONCISE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND,  written  on  a  new  plan. ...  1  20 

FROST'S  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  INDIANS,  exhibit- 
ing  their  manners  and  customs   1  25 

HEROINES  OF  HISTORY.  Sketches  of  celebrated  females.  6  mezzo- 
tint portraits  t  1  60 


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ABBOTT'S  CHINA  AND  THE  ENGLISH.  Embellished  with  20 
fine  illustrations.    Illuminated  title   84 

INDIAN  WARS  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES.  Illustrated  with 
numerous  engravings,  colored  and  plain   2  00 

CHAMBERS'  INFORMATION  FOR  THE  PEOPLE.  A  popular 
encyclopedia.  •  500  engravings   6  50 

REMARKABLE  EVENTS  IN  THE  HISTORY  OF  AMERICA,  to 
the  year  1848    5  00 

HART'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI. . .  88 

CALIFORNIA  ILLUSTRATED.  Including  a  description  of  the 
Panama  and  Nicaragua  routes.  Illustrated  with  48  superior  litho- 
graphs  2  50 

UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN.    Various  styles,  from  60  cts.  to   10  00 

LIFE  AT  THE  SOUTH  ;  or  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ^.S  IT  IS. .  . .  1  50 

THE  GREAT  CITIES  OF  THE  WORLD,  In  their  glory  and  deso- 
lation. . . .  .•  ,  1  50 

NOBLE  DEEDS  OF  AMERICAN  WOMEN.  Edited  by  J.  Clements 
and  L.  H.  Sigournet  .  1  50 

WOODSWORTH'S  FIRESIDE  MUSEUM.  An  exhibition  of  some 
things  amusing,  and  many  things  instructive   1  50 

ROMANCE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  Containing  heroic  exploits 
and  romantic  incidents   1  60 

GENERALS  OF  THE  LAST  WAR  WITH  GREAT  BRITAIN. 
With  portraits   1  20 

DARING  DEEDS  OF  AMERICAN  HEROES.  A  record  of  the 
heroes  of  our  country   1  50 

FREMONT'S  EXPLORING  EXPEDITION.   Numerous  illustrations.  1  25 

THRILLING  STORIES  OF  THE  FOREST  AND  FRONTIER.  By 
an  old  Hunter.    Fully  illustrated   90 

ADVENTURES  OF  HUNTERS  AND  TRAVELERS  and  Narratives 
of  Border  Warfare  ,   90 

SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN  AND  THE  ARCTIC  EXPEDITION   1  50 

JOURNAL  OF  A  VOYAGE  UP  THE  NILE.  A  work  of  great 
interest   60 

THE  BOOK  OF  THE  OCEAN.  Containing  ThriUinff  Narratives  and 
Adventures   1  50 

LAVENGRO,  the  Scholar,  the  Gipsy,  the  Priest   1  00 

GIFT  BOOK  FOR  YOUNG  LADIES.  Letters  to  a  young  Lady  on 
Amusements,  etc   90 


E.  MENDENHALL'S  PUBLICATIONS.' 


FROST'S  PICTORIAL  WONDERS  OF  HISTORY.  Embellished 

with  several  hundred  engravings  $2  50 

CYCLOPEDIA  OF  USEFUL  AND  ENTERTAINING  KNOW- 
LEDGE.   Embellished  with  over  400  engravings   4  00 

GATHERED  TREASURES  FROM  THE  MINES  OF  LITERA- 
TURE.   Moral  and  instructive   2  50 

DISRAELI'S  CURIOSITIES  OF  LITERATURE.    The  hterary 

character  illustrated   2  50 

ENCYCLOPAEDIA  AMERICANA.    A  popular  dictionary  of  Art, 

Sciences,  Literature,  etc.    14  vols.,  gilt  32  00 

PACIFIC  AND  DEAD  SEA  EXPEDITION,  or  voyage  of  the  U.  S. 

exploring  squadron   2  50 

DE  TOCQUEVILLE'S  DEMOCRACY  IN  AMERICA.    Its  political 

institutions  reviewed  and  examined   3  00 

FIELD'S  SCRAP  BOOK.  Tales  and  anecdotes  in  prose  and  poetry. . .  3  00 
ALCOTT'S  LECTURES  TO  YOUNG  MEN.    Familiar  letters  on 

various  subjects   84 

BEECHER'S  LECTURES  TO  YOUNG  MEN  on  various  important 

subjects   80 

LEWIS  AND  CLARK'S  JOURNAL  TO  THE  ROCKY  MOUN- 
TAINS.   Illustrated   67 

LIFE  AND  ESSAYS  OF  BEN.  FRANKLIN.   64 

MEDICAL  STUDENT  IN  EUROPE ;  or,  Notes  on  France,  England, 

Italy,  etc   67 

JESOP'S  FABLES   60 

LIBRARY  OF  GENERAL  KNOWLEDGE   1  20 

A  NEW  HISTORY  OF  TEXAS;  paper   25 

MAP  OF  THE  WESTERN  RIVERS.    By  S.  B.  Munson   20 

A  NEW  HISTORY  OF  OREGON  AND  CALIFORNIA ;  paper. ...  25 
PARLEY'SCOLUMBUS,WASHINGTON,  AND  FRANKLIN;  1vol.  1  20 
**        America,  Europe,  Asia,  African  Islands ;  Tales  of  the  Sea; 
**        Greece,  Rome;  Winter  Evening  Tales;  Bible  Stories; 
**        Juvenile  Tales;  Anecdotes;  Sun,  Moon,  and  Stars;  each.  40 

Right  is  Might;  Dick  Boldhero ;  The  Truth-Finder;  Philip 
**        Brusque;  Tales  of  Sea  and  Land;  Tales  of  the  Revolu- 

tion;  each   38 

LYONS'  ENGLISH  GRAMMAR   60 

TALBOTT'S  WESTERN  PRACTICAL  ARITHMETIC   34 

KEY  "    34 


E.  MENDENHALL»S  PUBLICATIONS. 


CRAFTSMAN,  or  Freemason's  Guide.    Containing  a  delineation  of 


Freemasonry  $1  34 

EXPERIENCE  OF  A  BARRISTER.    By  an  inhabitant  of  the  Inner 

Temple   1  00 

CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  ATTORNEY.    By  Gustavus  Sharp,  of 

the  late  firm  of  Flint  &  Sharp   1  00 

HERBERT  TRACY,  or  The  Trials  of  a  Merchant's  Life   80 

WISDOM  OF  THE  YOUNG.  The  advice  of  Chief  Justice  Hale  on 
the  Bible  and  Sabbath   1  00 

THREE  ERAS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  WOMAN.    The  Maiden,  Wife, 

and  Mother   1  00 

FAMILY  GOVERNMENT.    Instructions  in  rearing  Children   64 

THE  HEART'S  TREASURE.  A  poetical  gift  containing  select  pieces 
from  favorite  authors   1  00 

THE  TRUE  REPUBLICAN;  containing  the  Inaugural  Addresses, 
etc.,  of  all  the  Presidents  of  the  U.  S   1  25 

STORIES  OF  BIRDS,  with  pictures  to  match   90 

STORIES  ABOUT  ANIMALS,  with  pictures  to  match   90 

SUMMERFIELD,  or  Life  on  the  Farm.    Handsomely  illustrated   1  00 

THE  AMERICAN  MANUAL.    A  lucid  exposition  of  the  duties  of  ' 

Voters   90 

PARLEY'S  TALES  OF  ANIMALS.    With  numerous  illustrations.  1  00 

NINEVEH.    The  buried  city  of  the  east   1  20 

MURRAY'S  PICTORIAL  HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES, 

from  the  earliest  period  to  the  present.    16  engravings   3  00 

BROOKS'  UNIVERSAL  GAZETTEER.    New  edition  with  Census.  3  50 

HISTORY  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  By  Alfonso  De 
Lamartine.    17  engravings   3  00 

NAVAL  MONUMENT.    An  account  of  the  Battles  fought  by  the  U. 

S.  Navy.    25  engravings   1  75 

LIBRARY  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY.  Compiled  from  the  best 
authors.    400  engravings   3  00 

WHITE'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  WORLD  on  a  new  and  systematic 

Plan   2  50 

COLLINS'  HISTORY  OF  KENTUCKY,  with  Biographical  Sketches. 
40  illustrations   3  00 

HISTORY  OF  THE  INDIAN  WARS,  with  numerous  Notes  and 
Appendix   80 


E.  MENDENHALL»S  PUBLICATIONS. 

MCDONALD'S  WESTERN  SKETCHES,  being  sketches  of  the  early 


INDIAN  CAPTIVITIES,  or  Life  in  the  Wigwam.    Being  a  true  nar- 
rative of  captives   1  20 

REMARKABLE  SHIPWRECKS.    Containing  interesting  and  authen- 
tic narratives.    Illustrated   73 

TRAGEDY  OF  THE  SEA,  or  Sorrow  on  the  ocean,  lake,  and  river. .  80 
THE  AUSTRALIAN  CAPTIVE,  or  adventures  of  Wm  Jackman. 

Illustrated   1  50 

SEARS'  PICTORIAL  HISTORY  OF  THE  BIBLE.   3  00 

**  *'  **         of  China  and  India   2  50 

"  "  "         of  thrilling  incidents  in  Wars  of  the 

United  States   2  50 

**  "  Treasury  of  knowledge   2  50 

**  **  Scenes  and  Sketches  of  Europe   5  ^0 

**  Great  Britain  and  Ireland   2  50 

"  "  Hist,  of  Palestine   2  50 

**  "  Information  for  the  People   2  50 

"  "  Family  Instructor   2  50 

**  . "  Hist,  of  American  Revolution   2  50 

"  "  Sunday  book   2  50 

"  "  Bible  Biography   2  50 

"  "  Wonders  of  the  World   2  50 

THE  STRING  OF  PEARLS  for  boys  and  girls.  By  T.  S.  Arthur.  .  90 
GOLDEN  STEPS,  FOR  THE  YOUNG,  to  usefulness,  respectability, 

and  happiness   90 

THE  SILVER  CUP  OF  SPARKLING  DROPS  from  many  Fountains.  1  00 
ARTHUR'S  ADVICE  TO  YOUNG  LADIES,  on  various  subjects. . .  75 
ARTHUR'S  ADVICE  TO  YOUNG  MEN,  on  their  duties  and  con- 
duct through  life   75 

GEMS  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  An  Offering  of  Purity  and  Truth..  . .  1  25 
ODD  FELLOW'S  AMULET.    The  principles  of  Odd  Fellowship 

defined   1  20 

ODD  FELLOW'S  TEXT  BOOK.    An  elucidation  of  Odd  Fellow- 
ship.   Illustrated   2  40 

DICK  WILSON;  The  Rumseller's  Victim,  or  Humanity  pleading  for 

the  Maine  Law  .»   1  50 

THOMPSON'S  LECTURES  TO  YOUNG  MEN,  or  Young  Men 
admonished  in  a  Series  of  Lectures   1  00 


I 


